in spite of the good pay. It wasn’t the ugly tenants or the blackmail that troubled Dickory as much as what she was learning from Garson. She was learning to be a phony.
The canvas on Garson’s easel told the beginnings of the Cookie Panzpresser portrait, the underpainting already shaping the dignity of the sitter.
The second easel was again draped. Next to it sat a manikin dressed as a drum majorette, a plumed hat atilt on its blonde curly wig.
“Garson?” Dickory called again to make certain he was not around. Cautiously, she lifted a corner of the red velvet drape and nearly jumped out of her sneakers when the doorbell rang. Deciding to let Mr. Smith or Mrs. Jones wait, she raised the drape.
The canvas was primed, but unpainted. Blank.
Disappointed that her transgression had led to nothing but a nervous sweat, Dickory ran down the stairs to answer the insistent bell. The suspicious Shrimps peeked into the hallway, reminding her of her sore nose. She opened the front door.
“I’m sorry, Garson isn’t home,” she said, on hearing that the crippled man’s name was Fetlock.
“I will wait, thank you.” Fetlock spoke in a high, piping voice. His hair was black. His eyes were hidden under bushy brows. His bent body was disguised by a long, collared cape. One boot had a sole three inches thicker than the other. Slowly, painfully, he dragged his deformed leg up the steps, his left hand clutching the banister, his right hand quivering on a gold-handled cane.
“I see you’ve begun the Cookie Panzpresser portrait, Mr. Fetlock,” Dickory said to his crooked back.
The bent man straightened. “How did you know it was me?”
“The tremor in your right hand.”
Garson banged his cane against the wall and stormed up the stairs as best he could in the uneven boots.
It was no longer just a game. What was it then, she wondered as she slowly climbed the stairs. Why was Garson testing disguises?
Again the doorbell rang.
“Hello, Chief Quinn,” Dickory announced loudly toward the crack in Mallomar’s door.
“Hello, Hickory. Garson in?”
“Come on up, Chief,” Garson called. Disguise discarded, he looked like the portrait painter again, except for his bare feet. He had not had time to find his loafers. “Did you find the horrible hairdresser?”
“Sure did,” Quinn replied cheerfully, sitting on the desktop next to the telephone. “Frances was ensconced in the premises of her new beauty parlor.”
“Her?”
“All right, I thank you and pat you on the back. The hairdresser is a woman with a mole on her left cheek. The only place you went wrong is her last name: Ocher.”
“Ocher is a color,” Dickory insisted.
“An earth color,” Garson said. “Tell me, did the widows get their money back?”
“Not yet, but they’re happy with the arrangement. Frances Ocher bought a beauty shop with their money, so the widows settled for a percentage of the profits and free hair sets in perpetuity. Of course, the formula will be destroyed.” The chief sighed. “Victims of their own vanity.” He shook his head philosophically and removed the cigar for his next serious pronouncement. “Vanity, greed, jealousy, hatred—eliminate them and you eliminate three-quarters of all offenses. Vanity. Greed. Jealousy. Hatred. The four horsemen of modern crime.”
A phone call interrupted the Quinn theory of the criminal mind. “Yeah, he’s here,” the chief mumbled angrily, cigar back in his mouth. Dickory thought she heard the caller whine something about one entrance and Jim. Quinn’s cigar danced crazily. “Okay, come on back; but you lose him once more and you’ll be directing traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel.” He slammed the receiver, eased himself into the wing chair, and stared at Dickory. The smile returned to his ruddy face.
“Hickory Dickory Dock,
The mouse ran up the clock,
The clock struck three,
The mouse did flee,
Hickory Dickory Dock.”
Dickory turned away.
“Come on, Hickory
The canvas on Garson’s easel told the beginnings of the Cookie Panzpresser portrait, the underpainting already shaping the dignity of the sitter.
The second easel was again draped. Next to it sat a manikin dressed as a drum majorette, a plumed hat atilt on its blonde curly wig.
“Garson?” Dickory called again to make certain he was not around. Cautiously, she lifted a corner of the red velvet drape and nearly jumped out of her sneakers when the doorbell rang. Deciding to let Mr. Smith or Mrs. Jones wait, she raised the drape.
The canvas was primed, but unpainted. Blank.
Disappointed that her transgression had led to nothing but a nervous sweat, Dickory ran down the stairs to answer the insistent bell. The suspicious Shrimps peeked into the hallway, reminding her of her sore nose. She opened the front door.
“I’m sorry, Garson isn’t home,” she said, on hearing that the crippled man’s name was Fetlock.
“I will wait, thank you.” Fetlock spoke in a high, piping voice. His hair was black. His eyes were hidden under bushy brows. His bent body was disguised by a long, collared cape. One boot had a sole three inches thicker than the other. Slowly, painfully, he dragged his deformed leg up the steps, his left hand clutching the banister, his right hand quivering on a gold-handled cane.
“I see you’ve begun the Cookie Panzpresser portrait, Mr. Fetlock,” Dickory said to his crooked back.
The bent man straightened. “How did you know it was me?”
“The tremor in your right hand.”
Garson banged his cane against the wall and stormed up the stairs as best he could in the uneven boots.
It was no longer just a game. What was it then, she wondered as she slowly climbed the stairs. Why was Garson testing disguises?
Again the doorbell rang.
“Hello, Chief Quinn,” Dickory announced loudly toward the crack in Mallomar’s door.
“Hello, Hickory. Garson in?”
“Come on up, Chief,” Garson called. Disguise discarded, he looked like the portrait painter again, except for his bare feet. He had not had time to find his loafers. “Did you find the horrible hairdresser?”
“Sure did,” Quinn replied cheerfully, sitting on the desktop next to the telephone. “Frances was ensconced in the premises of her new beauty parlor.”
“Her?”
“All right, I thank you and pat you on the back. The hairdresser is a woman with a mole on her left cheek. The only place you went wrong is her last name: Ocher.”
“Ocher is a color,” Dickory insisted.
“An earth color,” Garson said. “Tell me, did the widows get their money back?”
“Not yet, but they’re happy with the arrangement. Frances Ocher bought a beauty shop with their money, so the widows settled for a percentage of the profits and free hair sets in perpetuity. Of course, the formula will be destroyed.” The chief sighed. “Victims of their own vanity.” He shook his head philosophically and removed the cigar for his next serious pronouncement. “Vanity, greed, jealousy, hatred—eliminate them and you eliminate three-quarters of all offenses. Vanity. Greed. Jealousy. Hatred. The four horsemen of modern crime.”
A phone call interrupted the Quinn theory of the criminal mind. “Yeah, he’s here,” the chief mumbled angrily, cigar back in his mouth. Dickory thought she heard the caller whine something about one entrance and Jim. Quinn’s cigar danced crazily. “Okay, come on back; but you lose him once more and you’ll be directing traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel.” He slammed the receiver, eased himself into the wing chair, and stared at Dickory. The smile returned to his ruddy face.
“Hickory Dickory Dock,
The mouse ran up the clock,
The clock struck three,
The mouse did flee,
Hickory Dickory Dock.”
Dickory turned away.
“Come on, Hickory
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