Lady Margaret, Countess of Chesterleigh was a beautiful woman. Monahan had always figured that kind of beauty was deadly. Now there was a chance that she'd shoved a blade into a man�s throat.
She stood under a wide skylight fully absorbed in the canvass in front of her, applying a thin line of paint with fully focused attention. Mary Bennett, her housekeeper, stood at Monahan's elbow holding the hat she'd taken from him. The Countess didn�t notice either of them until Mary announced his name. Then she turned and blinked at Monahan like a sleeper awakened suddenly.
"I'm sorry if I've disturbed you," Monahan said.
"I asked Mary to show you in, directly that you arrived." Her accent was British and upper-class. It made the Irish in him twitch a little even when she wasn�t saying anything annoying, which she often did. Mary�s accent was British also, but she wasn�t born in a castle and her voice was more comfortable to his ears.
Lady Margaret turned to the housekeeper. "Mary, would you bring up a pot of tea?"
"Yes, Madam," said Mary and quietly left.
Monahan didn't much care for tea but was pretty sure that Mary would slip him a cup of coffee.
"You knew Clyde Morton didn't you?" he asked the Countess. She regarded him with wide dark eyes and an enigmatic smile. She put the paint-encrusted palette on its stand and dropped the brush in a jar of something, turpentine Monahan figured.
"Please take a seat," she said as she picked up a towel and she wiped her hands. She wore a pale blue silk kimono and Monahan would bet two nickels that there was nothing underneath. The sleeves nearly swept the floor, or would have, but they had been unceremoniously rolled up away from the paint. She had a little dab of bright yellow on her forearm.
"You missed a spot," he said pointing.
"Thank you!" she smiled at him in a brilliant way that would make a strong man�s breath catch in his throat. "Oil paint does travel,� she said. �It's as if it has a mind of its own."
Monahan had no idea what she was talking about, but he made an agreeable noise. He remembered he was supposed to be sitting down and took one corner of a sofa that looked like it dated from the Civil War.
She slid into an easy chair with one foot tucked under her. The kimono fell open to expose one bare shin. He tried not to look.
"Yes, I knew Clyde Morton and I had a reason to kill him. However I did not." She said it so steadily, her gaze was so steady, that he believed her. However, he had seen her lie convincingly before. He knew she carried a twelve-shot Berretta in her handbag. He'd seen her use it.
"His clerk overheard you threaten to shoot him,� Monahan said. �So what were you doing the night of the murder if you weren't ventilating Clyde?" Monahan tried to sound off-hand but it came out a lot harsher than he meant.
"I was in my bed reading," she said.
"Was Henry with you?" Dr. Henry Trask was her, well, Monahan didn't know what to call him. Henry was the father of her three children. She was older than she looked, the youngest was a freshman at Berkeley. The Countess called Trask her lover, but that designation gave Monahan the fits.
"Henry is reading a paper at a conference in Los Angeles."
"Doctors do that?"
"Henry does."
"You knew Clyde pretty well. Who else--besides you--wanted him dead?" About then Mary showed up with a tray. Sure enough his cup was coffee. The countess held her teacup delicately and seemed to think over his last question.
"Clyde was a rat," she said thoughtfully. "He said he was an art dealer but he was little more than a speculator. He bought one of my paintings and refused to display it. As far as I know it's still gathering dust under his bed or where ever he hides things while they gain value. Two days ago I offered him more than its current worth if he would give it back. He refused and we quarreled. If his clerk overheard us you already know all the details.�
She tilted her head. Her hair was in a long heavy braid draped over her shoulder. Monahan caught himself wondering what it would look like when it was loose.
�Clyde treated his wife Edith abominably, so she is a possible suspect. His partner Louis Sheldon is a possibility. The rumor is that Mr. Sheldon was constantly trying to get Clyde to buy him out. And Ephraim Conway the art critic."
"An art critic? Did Clyde paint?"
"No. They had some sort of business connection and I'm pretty sure he slept with Mr. Conway�s wife once." Monahan set down his coffee on the cluttered low table in front of the couch and took out his notebook.
"You ever sleep with Clyde?" He expected her to be offended and defend her honor. She didn't miss a beat.
"Once several years ago before I discovered how odious he was. You probably noticed that he was quite good looking. He was even more so then." Monahan hadn�t noticed.
"Didn't Henry object?"
"Dear Henry understands the lay of the land." She gazed far away and took a sip of her tea.
"That gives Henry a motive," said Monahan.
"That gave Henry a motive several years ago," Lady Margaret replied coolly. She set down her teacup and folded her hands in her lap. �These questions are becoming impertinent and are straying far afield. Doubtless you have interviewed Clyde�s clerk and you know that I threatened him. You know I don�t have an alibi. Are you here to place me under arrest?�
Monahan smiled at her. He�d gotten her goat and now the interview was over. He would be dismissed in a moment and he�d have to leave now if he was going to do it under his own steam. The sun had shifted a little and a narrow shaft of light from the skylight illuminated her arm and shimmered the pale blue silk of her kimono.
�I don�t have enough evidence to hold you just yet, so this will do for now. Don�t leave town.� The last bit was almost automatic. She was too arrogant to leave town. She stood in a graceful flow of pale blue silk.
�The newspapers said Clyde had been stabbed,� she said. �And they hinted that the weapon was unusual. That intrigues me. What kind of unusual knife was it?�
Monahan walked over to her easel and looked around. Then he picked up a small palette knife. �It was exactly like this,� he said.
***
That evening, just as he was finishing up the last report for the day, the phone man bellowed across the squad room that Monahan had a call from Her Ladyship.
Lady Margaret informed him in crisp tones that she needed him to meet with her. It wasn�t exactly an order but there was no �please� attached. He took down an address in the commercial district just west of the Embarcadero.
When he arrived a half hour later, he found himself in a large warehouse filled with packing crates, some of which had been opened and excelsior spilled out on the floor. The Countess and Edith Morton sat on a beat up old divan in the warehouse office surrounded by paintings stacked every which way. Monahan bid good evening to the Countess and to Mrs. Morton who was plump and middle aged, neatly and expensively dressed. She and the Countess had apparently been chatting like old buddies. Monahan figured odds were that the Widow Morton didn�t know the Countess had once slept with her husband.
�You invite me over for a cup of tea?� said Monahan. Her Ladyship was dressed more conservatively than she had been this morning in a dark wool suit and a matching soft hat close around her head.
�No, Inspector,� said the Countess as if he had put his question more politely than he had. �I will need you to arrest the murderer shortly.�
Monahan looked around the small office as if a murderer was lurking in one of the corners. �Oh, really? Where is the evil-doer?�
�He will be along shortly,� said the Countess. Mrs. Morton seemed to be amused.
�Would you like some tea, Inspector?� she said, smiling at him.
�Never touch the stuff,� said Monahan. He pulled a chair out from where it had been scooted up to the desk and sat down.
�So who did it?� he asked.
�We don�t know, yet,� said the Countess. �Possess yourself in patience.�
Monahan crossed his legs and settled his hat on his knee. �How long do I have to do that?�
A door squeaked open out in the warehouse. �Hello?� a voice called. �Anyone there?�
�Perhaps not long,� said the Countess. Her smile was mysterious. Monahan wasn�t sure, but he thought maybe there was a touch of triumph in it.
Monahan recognized the phony southern accent of Ephraim Conway, the art critic.
�In here, Mr. Conway!� called Mrs. Morton.
When Conway stepped through the doorway he did a quick look around the office and took an involuntary step back. Monahan couldn�t figure out what spooked him, but something clearly did. Conway was positively green around the gills.
�Please have some tea, Mr. Conway,� said Mrs. Morton. She handed a cup to Conway and filled it with the last of the pot. Conway stared at the tea as if he couldn�t figure out what it was.
�Martin!� Mrs. Morton called. A young man, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, appeared in a doorway at the back of the office. He had the deferential attitude of a servant, but Monahan knew he was the clerk that overheard the Countess threaten to throw some lead into Clyde.
Mrs. Morton held up the heavy white teapot. �We�ll need another round of tea, dear. We have one more visitor coming. There are some folding chairs in the back. Would you bring out . . . let�s see. Three of them will do.�
�Am I the last to arrive, then?� said a deep voice at the door. Everyone swung around to look at him. He was a big man, dark, maybe Italian. Louis Sheldon, the partner.
�Yes, you are, Mr. Sheldon. Thank you for coming,� said Lady Margaret.
Sheldon frowned, looking around at the haphazardly scattered paintings. �Why is the stock out of its crates? Something could get damaged being treated this way.�
�We will explain in a moment, Louis,� said Mrs. Morton. �Ah! Martin thank you!� she said as the clerk appeared with and armload of wooden folding chairs.
Monahan couldn�t believe all this fuss. He fidgeted while everyone got settled in his folding chair, while Martin went to fetch the tea and Mr. Sheldon got his cuppa.
When Martin tried to back out of the room, the Countess insisted that he stay. In fact, she told him the third chair was for him. Martin�s eyes widened and he gingerly took his seat.
�Well, the gang�s all here,� said Monahan. �What the hell is this all about?�
�I�m with the inspector,� said Sheldon. �What�s this mess all about and what�s that creep doing here?� He indicated the art critic who opened his mouth to say something, but didn�t get the chance.
�One of us in this room killed Clyde Morton,� said the Countess. �With the exception of Mr. Monahan each and every one of us had a motive.�
�I didn�t,� said Martin breathlessly.
�Yes, you did, dear,� said Edith Morton. �Clyde was about to fire you.�
Martin turned pale. �No, I . . .� he tapered off and said no more, staring down at the floor between his feet.
�I came to Edith this morning to buy my painting back,� said the Countess. �I assumed she would be more sympathetic than Clyde, as indeed, she was.�
�Why should I want to keep it?� said Mrs. Morton. �You were offering a nice price for it.�
�So we came down to the warehouse,� the Countess continued.
�Now Miz Edith, I�d advise you to hang on to that paintin�,� said Conway laying on the thick southern drawl. �It�ll be worth twice what she offered Clyde in a couple of years.� His color seemed to have returned to normal.
�I�m sure y�all would dearly love for me to hang on to it,� said Edith doing a good mimic of his phony crackerbarrel accent. She picked up a painting at her feet and handed it to Monahan.
Monahan took the picture from her and studied it. Using lots of blues and yellows, it was a picture of an old Chinaman asleep in a doorway. In the street another young Chinese man walked by in a pair of work-stained blue overalls. It was the kind of scene you could see a hundred times a day in Chinatown. �Thompson� was scrawled across the bottom right corner. �What about it?� he said to the Countess.
�Touch it,� said Mrs. Morton. He did. A bit of paint came off on his thumb.
�Did you paint this?� Monahan asked the Countess.
�No. I painted the original a year and a half ago. That copy was made, perhaps, a week ago.� She gestured at the paintings all around them. �All of these are copies,� she said.
�What!� Louis Shelden jumped to his feet, impressive in someone of his bulk. �That rat bastard! If he wasn�t dead already, I�d plug him myself!�
�You want to watch your language around the ladies, Buster?� Monahan said in a dangerous tone. Sheldon muttered an apology and sat back down.
�Lady Margaret and I have been going through Clyde�s papers since just after luncheon,� said Edith. �They make most interesting reading. All the real paintings have been sold overseas, most of them to governments with whom it is illegal to trade.�
�You had to have known about it, Mr. Sheldon,� said the Countess. �That�s why you wanted Mr. Morton to buy you out, isn�t it?� Monahan saw Sheldon dart a glance at him.
�Yes. I didn�t like dealing with no dirty Fascists.� He cracked his knuckles as if he were unconsciously cracking Mussolini.
"And you authenticated them, Mr. Conway,� said the Countess.
�No, Ma�am!� said Conway. �I�m just a critic for the Gazette.�
�I placed two telephone calls this afternoon, Mr. Conway,� said the Countess smoothly. �You possess an appraiser�s license and although you were considered to be a rather pedestrian painter, you do have a degree in fine arts.� The countess paused and took a sip of her tea. �Oh, and you are from Montana.� Monahan chuckled at that. He noticed Edith did too.
�You can�t pin this murder on me,� Conway said, his tone vicious and much more Midwestern. �I didn�t do it and I�m not going down for it.� He jumped to his feet and stuck his hand in his pocket. She was too quick for him. Monahan figured she�d had her hand on the Berretta the entire time, because in an instant the Countess had the lady-like little barrel pointed at Conway�s gut. Conway got that green look again and raised his hands.
Monahan stood and pulled a snub-nosed �38 out of Conway�s pocket.
�Thank you, Inspector,� said Lady Margaret as coolly as if he�d refilled her teacup.
�My pleasure, Your Ladyship,� Monahan grabbed Conway�s arm. �Conway, you�re under arrest for the murder of Clyde Morton.�
�One, moment, Inspector,� said the Countess. �Mr. Conway is not your man.�
�That so,� said Monahan, reluctant to turn him loose.
�Please,� she said. �Both of you return to your seats.�
It was pretty clear that Conway wanted to bolt for the door, but he thought better of it and reluctantly sat back down. When he did, Monahan did too.
�Inspector,� Lady Margaret resumed. �You said Mr. Morton was killed with a palette knife. How is that possible? A palette knife is quite flimsy.�
�It had been sharpened,� said Monahan. �And also the victim--I�m sorry Mrs. Morton--had been stabbed in the throat. The killer couldn�t have gotten the knife through clothing. It was all pretty well thought out.�
�Had the pallet knife been used by an artist? Was there paint on it?�
�Yes, there were some smears of green paint. Are you going anywhere with this?�
�I�ve known for the last few minutes who the real killer is, but I had to be sure there was proof that would stand up in court.� She set down her teacup and settled back with the air of a job well done.
�Inspector,� she said. �Would you be good enough to fetch the painting we have concealed behind this divan?�
Mystified, Monahan looked behind the divan and pulled out a hideous green monstrosity depicting a sad clown on a bicycle. �Is this what you are looking for?� Conway and Sheldon watched the proceedings. Sheldon was clearly fascinated. Conway sat on the edge of his seat and again looked like he might make a break for it.
�Yes. Edith and I spent more than an hour looking for the studio where the paintings were duplicated. We were finally rewarded. That atrocious thing was still on the easel.�
The Countess still had her Berretta in her lap. When Martin stood up she pointed it at him. He stood like a mouse in front of a cat, staring at the gun barrel.
�Clyde was going to get hundreds of dollars for most of the paintings you produced for him. Thousands for a few of them. What did he pay you, Martin? What was your cut of the take?�
Martin looked horrified. �I don�t know what you are talking about.�
�I believe Martin was getting two dollars a day,� said Mrs. Morton. �I recall that from Clyde�s records.�
�That thing was the last of them, wasn�t it?� Lady Margaret said gesturing to the green clown.
Martin shook his head. �No! I had nothing to do with it!� He was falling apart. Monahan thought he was going to cry.
�You knew he wouldn�t keep you alive once you�d finished the last one,� said Lady Margaret.
Martin mouthed the word �No� and looked around desperately for an ally. �You . . .� he said breathlessly. �You . . . can�t prove it was me.�
�Aw, come on, Lady,� said Sheldon. �Conway was a painter, that proves he did it. Leave the kid--�
�Martin, please show your left elbow to the Inspector,� said the Countess. Her voice was cold. Frost formed across the room. Monahan hoped he never heard that tone from her while she was holding a gun on him. He hoped it hard. Martin looked frightened in a moist sort of way. Monahan felt sorry for him.
�No. It . . . you can�t . . .� he fumbled. He took a half step toward Monahan but did not do as that cold voice told him. Monahan grabbed the young man�s left arm and pulled him around. There on his elbow was a smear of green paint.
�I saw it when he brought the tea.� said the Countess. �Oil paint travels.� Then she opened her small handbag and dropped the Beretta into it.