The Cool Cottontail (13 page)

“Tibbs?” he asked without ceremony. Before Virgil could answer, he shook hands briefly and firmly, and then stepped aside to let his guest enter; total informality surrounded him and infused the room he stood in. The furniture was plain, worn, but basic—the selections of a man who knew his own mind. The walls were vivid, in four different colors, which
managed amazingly to achieve a look of harmony. The available light came though partially shuttered windows and formed angular shadows on the surfaces where it struck. Stuck about the walls were three unframed prints of works by Gauguin and several oil canvases whose virgin-white edges contrasted violently with the brilliant pigments of the wall surfaces. The whole effect was totally uninhibited, masculine, and doubtless matched the owner.

Holt-Rymers motioned his guest to a chair and said “Beer?” making the word an inquiry, a suggestion, and a commentary on the hot day.

Virgil knew better than to give a stiff answer to this man about being on duty. “Cold,” he said.

His host gave him a quick glance of approval and opened a refrigerator that stood in one corner of the room. Removing two cans, he popped the lids and handed one of the cans to Virgil. Then he settled himself into a chair and stretched out his long legs in an attitude of complete relaxation. “Begin,” he invited.

Since the conversation had so far consisted entirely of one-word speeches, Virgil was tempted to say “Murder,” just to see what the reaction would be. Instead he took a cooling drink and then started in a low key. “This concerns a business associate of yours, I believe—Dr. Albert Roussel.”

Holt-Rymers leaned back in his chair and pressed his lips together for a moment. “Al Roussel—one of the best,” he said. He let the obituary hang in the air for a few moments and then came back to the present. “Forgive me,” he went on. “It hit me hard when I heard it. I still don’t believe it. I’d read about the body in the nudist camp, of course—everybody has, I think. But it never occurred to me that it could be anyone
I know. You just don’t think of things that way. Then, not more than ten minutes ago, I caught the newsflash.”

He stopped and drank from his beer can.

“You knew he was murdered?” Tibbs asked.

“I guess so. Of course I did. I just hadn’t connected Al with the anonymous body. I’m still confused, I guess. It wasn’t even in the morning paper. What I can’t figure out is why anyone would want to do in as fine a fellow as Al. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

“He had one.”

“Yes, obviously, but I can’t bring myself to believe it.”

“How well did you know him?” Virgil asked.

“Very well. Perhaps I’d better fill you in. Do you know my line?”

Tibbs nodded toward the opposite wall. “If those paintings are yours, then you’re an artist.”

Holt-Rymers nodded. “Nicely put, and thank you. You’re right, I paint. Apparently to some purpose, because my stuff sells. Well enough so that I have a waiting list at the dealer who handles me. On the average, I do six canvases a year at around three thousand per, net to me, for the commercial market. The rest of the time I do what I please, paint what I like, and live here because I want to.”

He stopped for another few swallows of beer, leaned back, and went on, “Painting is like anything else. If you want to be any good at it, you have to learn how. I spent several years in Europe studying techniques, materials, and the rudiments of style.”

“Excuse me,” Virgil interrupted, “but have you ever sold any of your work to Walter McCormack?”

“Yes, he has a seascape of mine over his mantelpiece, but
that isn’t how we met, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Sorry. Please go on.” As he drank from his own can, he realized how quickly his host had followed his logic.

“While I was in Paris learning my trade, I ran into Al Roussel. That was some time ago, before he made his pile. We had a lot in common, including the wish to live our own lives, and we got to be good friends. More beer?”

“I’m still good, thanks.”

“After we really got to know each other, Al told me about a new film process he had just worked out and that he thought might make a fair amount of money. When he explained to me what it would do, I agreed with him. He had some money in those days, but not a great deal, so we made a bargain. I had the luck to sell a couple of pieces and invested the money in Al’s venture. If it panned out, fine. If not, then all I was out was a couple of pictures.”

“That was a generous way of looking at it,” Tibbs said.

“There’s no such thing as success without risk. Well, as you know, Al came through and my little investment in him paid off handsomely. A woman he had known for some time put up some more capital, and a holding company was formed. It was largely four people: Al, Walter McCormack, a fellow named Ozzie Peterson who had made quite a bit playing professional football, and the woman—Joyce Pratt. Have you met her?”

“Yes,” Tibbs answered.

“She was the moving spirit and more or less ran things, with McCormack as the actual business manager. Then Al tossed in the golden apple:—he put it that since I had invested money in his work early in the game when no one else would take a chance on him, I would have to be an equal partner in the
deal. That upset little Joyce a lot. As an artist, I had no social standing, of course, and my modest investment was peanuts compared to all the others. However, Al made it stick and I got a full fifth of the company. After that I could paint without having to worry where the beer and skittles were coming from. Now that I’m hung in a few museums here and there and the price of my stuff keeps going up on the market, Joyce has more or less accepted me as an endurable evil.”

“Now there’s a deal on to sell the company.”

“Yes.”

“A good one?”

“No. Even with Al gone, the assets will grow in value. The patents Al left us are basic, and aren’t likely to be outdated for a long time.”

“Do you know how Joyce feels?”

“She’s money-hungry and wants to sell. Since her husband died, she has no more coming in from that source and she wants all she can get right now.”

“McCormack?”

“I don’t really know, but he’s pretty cagey and I would guess he’d like to hang on.”

“How about Peterson?”

“My guess is he would like to sell.”

“So it looks like two and two, then, with Dr. Roussel, up to the time of his death, holding the balance of power.”

“As I see it, yes.”

“Do you know what his feelings were on the matter?” Tibbs drank the remainder of his beer, which had lost its chill and was a little flat.

“Not definitely, but I’m pretty sure he was for hanging on.
He knew his stuff was good and he had more coming up. The man was a genius in his field.”

“Did you see him any time during this last visit?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I was out of town.”

“Where?”

“Out in the desert by myself—painting.”

Tibbs decided, for his own reasons, on an abrupt change of subject. “I want to see Walter McCormack,” he said.

“And he won’t let you in,” Holt-Rymers said.

“Out at his place I was told that if anyone admitted me, he would be fired on the spot.”

“Probably true. McCormack is a stiff-necked old buzzard who still believes in the ruling aristocracy, of which he has elected himself a life member. Decent enough in his way, but to him a servant is a thing—a chattel. So are the citizens of the republic, with the exception of the few who travel in his circle.”

“How do you stand with him?”

“Strangely, he accepts me. In his opinion my pictures raise me above the masses because he happens to like them. I’m not considered to be on his level, of course, but I’m like Beethoven—allowed to live under the roof.”

“Can you get me in to see him?”

“I doubt it. Don’t misunderstand me—I’d be glad to try, but my tolerance doesn’t extend beyond myself.”

Tibbs laced his fingers together. “I’d like to ask a favor of you,” he said. “I’d like a three-day option to buy your stock in the holding company. I know you have an agreement and that I can’t exercise it. Also I don’t have that kind of money.”

Holt-Rymers got up from his chair, went to the refrigerator,
and came back with two more beers. He handed one to Virgil, took a swallow of his own, and then asked, “As a lever to get in to see McCormack?”

“If I had the option, he might invite me over—just to tell me I can’t use it,” Virgil added.

“You might make him mad.”

“Then we’d be even. He irritated me.”

Holt-Rymers took a moment to think. “I’ll trade you,” he said after drinking more beer. “You get the option, provided you give me a proper safeguard against its use, if you’ll do a favor for me.”

“Traffic ticket?” Tibbs asked.

The artist looked at him. “You call that a trade? No, something else entirely. I want you to introduce me at the nudist camp—that is, if you’ve been there and know the people.”

“I’ve been there, all right, but you don’t need me for that.”

“In a way I do.” Holt-Rymers tipped back his head and drank deeply from the can. “Suppose I hire a model and she reports to me here. I put her on a stand and go to work, but what kind of feeling do I get? Closed in, restricted—with the shutters down to keep people from peeking in while I’m at work. Results—one bad picture. If I could arrange with the nudist-camp people to paint there occasionally, it could make all the difference. I’d provide my own model, but if there are people out there who might be willing to work for me for a fee, so much the better. With real outdoor light and space around me, I could create some things worth looking at. Do you think they would go for it?”

Virgil reflected on it for a few seconds. “I’ll give it a try,” he offered. “They are intelligent, reasonable people and I think they’ll buy it. And I can think of one possible subject
for you—their daughter. About eighteen and quite attractive. You might even call her beautiful.”

Holt-Rymers pointed to the telephone. Virgil crossed the room, and picked up the phone. When Forrest answered, he outlined the proposition, listened, and waited while Linda was consulted. After five minutes on the line he hung up and, with a sense of satisfaction, turned back to his host.

“You’re in,” he announced.

The artist got to his feet. “Give me a couple of minutes to get dressed; then we can go over to the bank building and have the option drawn up in proper legal style. That will give you something to show McCormack, and he’ll want to see it. How do you plan to convince him that you can afford to buy in?”

“By keeping my mouth shut. If I act as though I have the money, it will be up to him to challenge it.”

“I’d give a lot to be there,” Holt-Rymers said as he left the room.

The office of O. W. Peterson, investment securities, was in Beverly Hills; as he drove there, Tibbs allowed himself a little self-satisfaction. A completely legal option permitting him to buy the stock in Roussel Rights, Inc., held by William Holt-Rymers crackled in his pocket. That ought to take care of Mr. Walter McCormack, who had no time to see busy policemen charged with, among other things, the responsibility for protecting him and his property. And without his property, Tibbs guessed, the austere Mr. McCormack might find the world a tough place to live in.

Traffic was crowded and slow on Wilshire Boulevard, particularly after Tibbs passed the Beverly Hilton headed east. He entered the colony of new high-rise buildings and searched for a parking lot without a full sign. With his license number he could have made use of a red-curb zone, but he was a firm believer in the principle that police powers carried with them police obligations. Two blocks past his destination he found a lot open, parked, and walked back.

Peterson was in and expecting him when he arrived. In contrast to the artist he had left a short time ago, Tibbs sensed an immediate hostility—in the office girl, who raised her too-plucked eyebrows before she announced him, and in the
broker when Virgil met him. He felt that he was in the camp of the enemy.

Peterson weighed about two hundred plus, with much of the plus concentrated around his middle. His frame was big and rugged, typical of the ex-football star, but he had obviously been neglecting himself and his stomach protruded. The athletic look was preserved in his crew cut, but denied by the network of tiny red veins that traced a discernible pattern across his broad, florid face. He held out a hamlike hand and shook hands as briefly as possible with no show of cordiality. He waved toward a chair as though he did not care whether Tibbs took it or not.

Peterson then seated himself behind his desk in a massive posture chair that would have held Nero Wolfe and spoke with a rasp in his voice uncommon in a salesman. “Please be brief,” he directed. “I have an appointment.”

Tibbs looked at him coolly as he sat down. “You have one with me,” he reminded him. “This morning a man named Albert Roussel was buried in San Bernardino. He had been murdered. If you can tell me right now who killed him, and supply me with enough evidence to secure a conviction, I’ll be glad to leave your office. Otherwise we have some things to talk over.”

“I have nothing to tell you,” Peterson snapped. “I knew the man and had business dealings with him. You know all this or you wouldn’t have called me. But I have no evidence to give you. I hadn’t seen Roussel for a long time—didn’t even know he was in the country.”

Tibbs took out his notebook. “You said you hadn’t seen Dr. Roussel for a long time. How long would you estimate that to be?”

Peterson rocked back and forth, as though he were making a mighty effort to control himself. “Is that germane?” he asked. “I can’t really see that it’s any of your business.”

Instead of flashing anger, Tibbs settled back and seemed to compose himself even more. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and controlled. “Mr. Peterson, a statement like that addressed to a police officer investigating a murder is asinine, and you know it. If you are trying to put yourself under suspicion, you are succeeding.”

Peterson leaned forward and rose slightly to emphasize his bulk. “Are you here to pass judgment on me?” he barked.