The Polka Dot Nude (17 page)

"But he generally left the clothes on,” she pointed out.

His eyes mentally stripped Drew of her clothes. “Too often,” he agreed sadly. “Modigliani would take them off, but he’s got a hard edge to him I don’t agree with. The old boys now, Reubens and company, they understood how to paint a woman. His colors were well done, soft and hazy, like the Impressionists.”

We made a cursory tour of the shop, then we were ushered through the beaded curtain to view other paintings. I saw Brad’s head swiveling around, like my own, to see if my nude was amongst them. None of the names represented was famous enough to bother forging. There were no works by Rosalie’s friends. Brad took a quick look around and said, “Thank you kindly. I was just passing by and dropped in. I’ll walk along to the next place. Maybe you could recommend a reputable gallery to me? I don’t collect cheap paintings. I want a name that will hold up, an established name, but I want a picture that will give me pleasure too. It’s the taxes that kill us, you know. You’ve got to invest in something, and buying land hobbles you with taxes and poachers and tenants that don’t pay their rent.”

“So wise of you.” She smiled. “You’ll be taking your painting back to Ireland with you, Mr. O’Casey?”

“Timothy!” he reminded her, shaking a playful finger. “I will, yes. I’ll take it right home with me. Folks think there’s no art in Ireland, only because they never get a chance to see it. I can tell you, Lord Falkenburg has a dandy collection, and two or three others right there in Leinster close to home have got two dozen masterpieces between them. Nothing to match my family’s collection, of course,” he added proudly.

Drew listened closely, then spoke. “I happen to have a few modern paintings in my own private collection,” she said hesitantly. “They’re not really for sale . . .“ she added with tantalizing uncertainty.

“Then they’d not be much good to me. Could you name another gallery?” Brad asked.

“I think you’d like them,” she continued. “I’m thinking of selling one or two, to make room for a new artist I’ve begun collecting. A German abstract painter—you wouldn’t be interested in him. Why don’t you drop around to my apartment this evening, Timothy?” she suggested.

“Was there anything in particular we had to do this evening, Miss Andrews?” he asked me.

“No, nothing.”

“That’s fine then. If you’ll give me your address, I’ll stop by this evening.”

“I’ll give you my card. Say, nine o’clock?” she suggested. She lifted a card from a brass salver on her desk and gave it to Brad. “You’d be paying cash, I take it?”

“A certified check, if that’s good enough for you. I only have twenty-five hundred in traveler’s checks, but my bank will transfer some funds from home. I set it up before I left, to cover the purchase of the mare.”

“That’ll be fine.” She smiled. “I’ll look forward to seeing you. Oh, and good-bye, Miss Anderson,” she added as an afterthought.

Drew accompanied us to the door. As we passed beyond view, Brad handed me the card, which held the familiar address.

“I have a distinct feeling Miss Andrews was not included in that invitation to view her etchings. I might as well have been invisible. It must be the jeans.”

“Yeah, the lack of a y chromosome. I told you, she likes men.”

“She’s too old for you, Brad.”

He smiled in surprise. “Too old for a pathetic old creep like me?”

“That one really hit home, I see.”

“Nothing was said about your coming with me. Come along if you’ve a mind to.”

“You can cut the brogue now,” I said irritably. “There wasn’t a sign of Rosalie’s paintings there. This is going to be a lot trickier than we thought.”

“She has them at her apartment.”

“How is Mr. Timothy O’Casey going to get a certified check from a bank?”

“By opening an account in his name and depositing money.

“How much do you figure we’re talking about?”

“Something in the neighborhood of fifty thou will be her asking price.”

“A mere bagatelle. You might be as well take two.”

“Do you think people really buy those awful smears she had up on the stands?” he asked. “I could do better than that.”

“A blind monkey could do better. If people don’t buy them, then she’s crooked for sure. I’d like to know her rent for that shop, and the apartment.”

We came to a corner and waited for the light. “What do you want to do now?” I asked.

“I planned to take you to Le Pavilion d’Antibes for dinner.”

“Your French restaurant! Great! Is it fancy?”

He turned a leery eye on my jeans. “We can go to my place to change.”

‘You have an apartment in New York?”

“I live in New York.”

“I didn’t see how you could possibly have time to teach literature, with all those quickie books you do.”

“I used to teach. I gave it up when the demand for my books exceeded what I could supply on a part-time basis. Once I gave up the teaching, there was no reason to go on living in a small city, away from the action.”

“Where’s your apartment? No, let me guess. Sutton Place?” He shook his head. “Park Avenue?”

“Close, but no cigar. Central Park West.”

I had already felt out of place in the expensive art gallery. I’d hardly said a word, I was so awed by Drew Taylor. Brad’s apartment would he equally intimidating—I knew it before I got into his car. I could almost feel my back arch in preparation of being uncomfortable. My conversation dwindled to monosyllables as we drew near. It disappeared entirely when the doorman bowed ceremoniously and greeted Mr. O’Malley with a touch of his cap. The marble-floored lobby, hung in wheat silk, didn’t do anything to revive my conversation. I felt as though I had hay stuck in my hair, to match my jeans and sneakers. Mixed in with my feelings of inadequacy was a burning resentment that Hume Mason’s sleazy writing paid so inordinately well. For some reason, Helen came to mind. Helen should be coming home from Greece this week. I’d have to call, and let her brag about the honeymoon.

CHAPTER 13

The apartment was all I feared, and more. We entered into a hushed atmosphere, the only sound the whisper of an air conditioner purring softly. A sweep of brown marble hallway stretched toward the horizon, terminating in a shattered statue of some Greek god, mounted on a big pedestal. I had the uncomfortable feeling of being in someone else’s church, not knowing quite what was expected of me. Maybe I should genuflect, or bless myself. I looked uncertainly at Brad, who had gone on to another archway and was waiting for me. He was very much at home, a full-fledged member of this temple to mammon. I waded through a Persian rug, eyes darting hither and thither to admire the room’s appointments. Even with one rug and the Barcelona chair missing, the place was fully furnished. Only the apartment’s vast dimensions saved it from being overcrowded.

Brad hadn’t become a connoisseur of art at the gallery without some preparation. If the long-necked, red-haired beauty with the black ellipses for eyes wasn’t a genuine Modigliani, she was a better copy than even Rosalie could do. Modigliani was accompanied by other famous names.

The sun-dappled lake bordered with trees reeked of Monet. Renoir was there, too, along with a saint who belonged in a stained-glass window. A Rouault, definitely. The oldest work in the room wasn’t an oil painting, but a sketch. It was of a hare cowering beneath a bush, ready to dart off.
I took a liking to the hare immediately, felt akin to it, with its dark simple looks, trapped amidst all the finery. In the lower left corner the date
1508
was printed, with a capital
D
in a little framed box. I knew I was looking at an original Albrecht Dürer. The hair on the back of my neck crept with the sensation of awe. All the pictures wore embossed gilt frames twice as big as the actual painting required.

“What’s this, your gilt-edged securities?” I joked, to cover my awe.

“Yeah, how do you like them?”

“Impressive,” I said, and looked idly around the rest of the room. I wasn’t personally acquainted with the furnishings, but they looked as if they might have names, like the Barcelona chair. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your acquisitions?” My voice was involuntarily beginning to take on its tone of irony used to conceal a rampant sense of jealousy and inferiority.

He looked askance, and ignored the jibe. “Want something to drink?”

“Sure, a beer, if you have one. Don’t bother with a glass. The bottle’s fine. Is it okay if I sit on this, or is it only for show?” I tossed a negligent nod toward a low-slung sofa in ivory suede. It was gorgeous. I would have killed for that sofa. The window above it overlooked Central Park.

“It can take your weight. Just make yourself comfortable.”

“I’ll try.” A small snort of derision escaped me.

Brad’s jaw muscle quivered once before he said, “I’ll be right back.”

It was hard to be comfortable in this temple. The old insecurities came storming over me, leaving me prey to my devices of sarcasm and put-down. And again I was besieged by the unfairness of Brad’s acquiring so much luxury with so little real effort and/or talent.

I no sooner sat on the sofa than I heaved myself up and went to read the little bronze plates beneath the paintings. Genuine. Every one of them. I strolled round the room, lifting the decorative pottery to read the names on the bottoms. Bustelli, Meissen, Sèvres. When I’d determined their names and pedigrees, I went to the Renoir painting. I touched the blobs of impasto, and throbbed with envy.

From the archway, Brad’s voice suddenly echoed in the room. “The people who know about these things don’t recommend playing with the pictures,” he said playfully.

I jumped a foot. He came forward and handed me an open can of beer. “Thanks,” I said. “Those so-called books of yours must pay well.” Now why had I added that mean “so-called”?

“My so-called books keep me in the style to which I have become accustomed—by the sweat of my own so-called brow.”

“You have a very impressive apartment, Brad,” I said, and gave a condescending smile.

“You’ve already paid that compliment. Glad you approve. Would you like a tour?”

“Sure, if you’re eager to show it off.” I was on thorns to see the rest of it.

“We’ll start with the library and office, where I do my so-called writing.” I sensed that his patience was wearing thin. He strode angrily down the hall that had the statue at the end, flung open a door, and pushed a light switch.

By swallowing hard I suppressed the gasp that rose up in my throat. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair that he had such aids to his damnable, cheap writing. The first room was a library, a long room lined with oak shelves, on which rested five or six thousand books. There were matched sets of everything—
Encyclopedia Britannica, Great Books of the Western World,
the
Unabridged Oxford Dictionary,
and rows of classics. A whole section was devoted to history, which surprised me. There were rows of art books, gourmet cookbooks, books on writing and drama and poetry, all systematically arranged like a public library. I couldn’t even accuse him of conspicuous consumption. The books were well thumbed.

“This must save you a lot of trips to the library,” I said, determined to be unimpressed.

He had decided to retaliate. “My secretary does the leg work. She’s deductible.”

“I didn’t realize Hume Mason was interested in history. You don’t write books about historical figures, do you?”

“Like a lot of English lit majors, I minored in history. My office is in here,” he said, and opened a door into a computer room. “This is the one that really saves time. No retyping once the manuscript is done.”

Jealousy escalated to black envy. It was a dream. I remembered urging him to buy an electric typewriter, and his modest answer that he intended to look into it. Laughing at me all the time!

“A pity it didn’t fit in the trunk of your car with the Cuisinart; you could have used it for Rosalie’s book.” I turned to leave immediately. From the corner of my eye, I had an impression of a wall of filing cabinets, another desk with an electric typewriter, and more bookshelves.

“It would have saved me some work, but it wasn’t practicable.”

“I wouldn’t dream of using one myself. The final reworking is so important. Of course for some work it hardly matters.”

His jaw muscle was hopping like a Mexican jumping bean; his voice was as thin and taut as a wire. “Shall we go back to the living room, or would you like to see the rest of the place?”

“I’ve seen enough, thanks. I can imagine the rest—mirrored ceiling in the master bedroom, fur coverlet, a billiards room tucked away somewhere.” Stop it, Audrey! Stop now, before you go too far.

“I don’t play billiards,” he said in an arctic voice, as we went back to the living room. I got a glimpse of the dining room in passing. It had a large oval table surrounded by a dozen or so carved chairs. There was a baroque silver epergne on the table.

“Quite a collection,” was my faint praise.

“I don’t intend to apologize for what I’ve got. I earned it,” he said simply.

“Then it’s true you never go broke underestimating the taste of the public. Now, what are we going to do about Drew Taylor?” I asked, in a brisk businesslike manner.

“We came here to change. Let’s do it, and discuss plans over dinner.”

“It slipped my mind—your little French restaurant. You should have had it set up in your dining room, Brad. It’d save you even more time.”

“Dining out is one of my simple pleasures,” he said, still with an effort at civility. Then he added, “I’ll show you to the guest room.”

I followed him back down the hall to a room across from the library. It was done in Wedgwood blue, with white French furnishings. There was a bathroom en suite with a blue sunken tub and a chandelier.

“It came with the apartment,” he said, when I slanted a look up at the chandelier.

“It saved you the bother of having it installed. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. I can find my way back to the saloon. Hang a right at the end of the hall, I think?”

“That’s one way. Or you can take the scenic route, hang a left just before you get to Zeus. It takes you through the conservatory,” he retaliated, and walked out, his posture rigid.