Charles Demuth, and others—including of course Langham’s own. I stopped in front of a full-length portrait I’d seen reproduced many times—of a burlesque stripper with long blonde hair.
“That’s Lili St. Cyr at the Gaiety in Montreal,” he said. “She invited me up there to paint her. I would make pencil or charcoal sketches at the theater, then she would come back to my hotel suite and I would do oil sketches. The final painting I made here.”
As he spoke, I looked around. I noticed that one corner of the studio was lined with bookshelves, floor to ceiling—just like the bookshelves in what I had taken to be the library of a ritzy manse in Yari’s photograph. I tried to figure out if the picture could have been taken right there. The conclusion I came to was: very likely with a bullet.
Langham led me to a large pedestal table on which a dozen or more drawings were scattered. Some were in charcoal, some in ink and wash—all were of Sandy Smollett. Except for one, they were nudes—conventional art school poses probably made at one of Jilly’s drawing groups. They were examples of effortless draftsmanship, but none of them captured that indescribable quality that made Sandy Smollett so hard to shake out of my hair. The other one was different. Tinted with watercolor, it showed her fully clothed in a pinafore dress and looking like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz .If Lana Turner had gotten the part, that is .
“Which do you like?” he asked.
I pointed to the pinafore dress.
“Of course,” he said. “That’s the sexiest by far. That’s what makes her so special, isn’t it? All she has to do is walk down the street.”
I pictured her on the sidewalk in the bloodstained dress.
“That seems to be her problem,” I said.
“Of course it is,” said Langham, “and you understand that because you’re in love with her.”
I could have done without this crap, but I went along with it and dutifully said, “I am?”
“Of course you are. You can’t help but be in love with her—just as I am. But then, I fall in love three or four times a day. I fall in love with the waitress in the coffee shop. I fall in love with the teller at the bank. You can’t make the paintings I make without constantly falling in love. It’s an occupational hazard. But Sandy’s special, and I think she likes you.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I spoke to her half an hour ago. She calls me every day. I told her you were coming over. She didn’t say much, but I could tell.”
That would mean that when she called Langham I was on a train somewhere between Canal Street and Lincoln Center, several minutes before I spoke to her from the station. Yet she hadn’t mentioned that she knew where I was going. She would have some explaining to do.
“So how did you discover Sandy Smollett?” I asked, just like a real detective. “Did you simply drift into Aladdin’s Alibi one evening and find her on stage flaunting her artistry? How did you get involved with that world, anyway?”
Langham took me by the arm and led me over to an art deco bar built into one corner of the studio.
“It’s early in the day for me, dear boy,” he said, “but name anything you fancy.”
I could have done with a Scotch, but I said it was early in the day for me too. He opened a miniature refrigerator to reveal a selection of Dr. Brown’s sodas and fancy French and Italian limonades. I chose one of the imports, he opened a celery soda for himself, and we sat down in a pair of matched leather chairs. They were not dissimilar, it occurred to me, to the one Yari Mendelssohn had photographed Sandy Smollett sprawled in.
“After the Great War,” Langham began, “I migrated to New York to study at the Art Students League. Prohibition had just commenced its lugubrious reign, which meant that you had to find an obliging entrepreneur who could supply you with plausible alcohol—we weren’t in Bible school, after all—and you had to know
“That’s Lili St. Cyr at the Gaiety in Montreal,” he said. “She invited me up there to paint her. I would make pencil or charcoal sketches at the theater, then she would come back to my hotel suite and I would do oil sketches. The final painting I made here.”
As he spoke, I looked around. I noticed that one corner of the studio was lined with bookshelves, floor to ceiling—just like the bookshelves in what I had taken to be the library of a ritzy manse in Yari’s photograph. I tried to figure out if the picture could have been taken right there. The conclusion I came to was: very likely with a bullet.
Langham led me to a large pedestal table on which a dozen or more drawings were scattered. Some were in charcoal, some in ink and wash—all were of Sandy Smollett. Except for one, they were nudes—conventional art school poses probably made at one of Jilly’s drawing groups. They were examples of effortless draftsmanship, but none of them captured that indescribable quality that made Sandy Smollett so hard to shake out of my hair. The other one was different. Tinted with watercolor, it showed her fully clothed in a pinafore dress and looking like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz .If Lana Turner had gotten the part, that is .
“Which do you like?” he asked.
I pointed to the pinafore dress.
“Of course,” he said. “That’s the sexiest by far. That’s what makes her so special, isn’t it? All she has to do is walk down the street.”
I pictured her on the sidewalk in the bloodstained dress.
“That seems to be her problem,” I said.
“Of course it is,” said Langham, “and you understand that because you’re in love with her.”
I could have done without this crap, but I went along with it and dutifully said, “I am?”
“Of course you are. You can’t help but be in love with her—just as I am. But then, I fall in love three or four times a day. I fall in love with the waitress in the coffee shop. I fall in love with the teller at the bank. You can’t make the paintings I make without constantly falling in love. It’s an occupational hazard. But Sandy’s special, and I think she likes you.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I spoke to her half an hour ago. She calls me every day. I told her you were coming over. She didn’t say much, but I could tell.”
That would mean that when she called Langham I was on a train somewhere between Canal Street and Lincoln Center, several minutes before I spoke to her from the station. Yet she hadn’t mentioned that she knew where I was going. She would have some explaining to do.
“So how did you discover Sandy Smollett?” I asked, just like a real detective. “Did you simply drift into Aladdin’s Alibi one evening and find her on stage flaunting her artistry? How did you get involved with that world, anyway?”
Langham took me by the arm and led me over to an art deco bar built into one corner of the studio.
“It’s early in the day for me, dear boy,” he said, “but name anything you fancy.”
I could have done with a Scotch, but I said it was early in the day for me too. He opened a miniature refrigerator to reveal a selection of Dr. Brown’s sodas and fancy French and Italian limonades. I chose one of the imports, he opened a celery soda for himself, and we sat down in a pair of matched leather chairs. They were not dissimilar, it occurred to me, to the one Yari Mendelssohn had photographed Sandy Smollett sprawled in.
“After the Great War,” Langham began, “I migrated to New York to study at the Art Students League. Prohibition had just commenced its lugubrious reign, which meant that you had to find an obliging entrepreneur who could supply you with plausible alcohol—we weren’t in Bible school, after all—and you had to know
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