Edwin of the Iron Shoes Read online

  I went looking for number CD1910, the other order I’d noted from the ledger. It appeared on page 231, illustrated by a sorrowing Mary at the foot of the cross. “Fifty assorted oil paintings, Late Gothic.”

  That was an awful lot of religious paintings for one small shop, especially a shop slated to relocate soon. Putting the catalogue back on the shelf, I left the showroom and opened the third door.

  Van Osten certainly didn’t waste any money on frills. The office contained a functional oak desk and a row of steel filing cabinets. I located a drawer marked PURCHASE ORDERS—G & B.

  In a few minutes, I had the order for the Florentine religious paintings, stamped “Received by Customer,” with Monday’s date. Van Osten’s secretary kept her files current.

  A second purchase order, for the Late Gothic paintings, showed the shipment due to arrive tomorrow and gave the name of a freight forwarder. A handwritten note indicated the delivery instructions had been changed on Tuesday of this week. The order was to go directly to van Osten Imports rather than Joan’s Unique Antiques. I copied the information by the light of my flash.

  I knew how the smuggling was done now, but I finished searching the office. It told nothing else; van Osten, like most salesmen, probably carried important papers in his briefcase. I went through the secretary’s desk next and came up empty-handed. Finally I rechecked the supply closet.

  The box sat on the floor as if it were waiting for me. Its shipping label bore the return address of Giannini & Banducci, Roma, Italia, and delivery instructions to Joan’s Unique Antiques, San Francisco, California, U.S.A.

  Inside, it was packed with small religious paintings. When I lifted one out, I could immediately tell the difference, in both weight and quality, between it and the Bellini. I knelt down and counted the paintings.

  There were forty-nine. Joan must have taken one out and hung it on the wall of the shop next to Edwin, where the killer missed it. The box was what he had taken the night of the murder. And the Bellini was what he had returned for. Returned, only to find it gone.

  Fear stabbed at me, and I stood up, listening to the quiet, which, if I let it, was going to start seeming tangible and ominous. It was time I got out of there, and quickly. The pieces of my theory about the murder were falling into place.

  21

  I stopped at a pay phone on Market Street and called police headquarters. Marcus was off duty but had left his home number for me. I called it and said I wanted to talk to him right away. He suggested I come to his place and gave me instructions.

  Twenty minutes later, I parked on Twin Peaks in front of a small redwood house that seemed to cling to the slope of the hill behind it. I went up and rang the bell. Footsteps descended from the second floor, a light flashed on, and Greg Marcus opened the door. He was dressed in Levi’s, his feet in soft leather moccasins.

  He gave me a penetrating glance and gestured for me to come in. “Well, papoose, don’t tell me you’ve solved the case already.”

  The nickname annoyed me, but I let it go. “Practically. I’ve uncovered some complicating factors.”

  “Just what I need. I don’t suppose I can bribe you to go home and mind your own business?”

  “You tried that yesterday.”

  “That was a threat, not a bribe.”

  We were standing in a large entryway that seemed to take up half the ground floor. The other half would probably be a garage, and the living space would be on the second and third floors. I saw that one wall was covered by a mural, a wheat-colored hillside dotted with dark green trees.

  “That’s a nice mural,” I commented.

  “Thank you. It was done by a friend, the artistic one I was talking about before. She did a good Cézanne.” He turned and led me upstairs to the living room.

  At the back, the room opened into a lush, floodlit garden of shrubs and vines that cascaded down from the hillside. Toward the front, the lights of the city spread beyond picture windows. Logs blazed cheerfully in a fireplace at one end, where a couple of easy chairs and a long, low table were drawn up. On the table sat an earthenware teapot and two cups.

  “This is a great house,” I said. “Your garden is beautiful.”

  “Glad you like it. My ex-wife did most of the planting. I seem to attract women who enjoy making home improvements.”

  “How nice for you,” I said with dry emphasis.

  Marcus ignored my sarcasm. “Say, you and I could become lovers, and then you could add something to the house, too.”

  I stared at him.

  “Don’t look so horrified. I’ve been told I’m not all that bad. How would you improve this room?”

  “With a gun collection.” I could feel the .38 in my bag, where I’d put it that morning.

  “It’s the little feminine touches that make a home,” Marcus said.

  We grinned at each other warily. Our brief acquaintanceship had taken an unexpected turn.

  “Thought maybe you could use some tea,” Marcus said, waving me into one of the chairs. “I was just going to toast myself a bagel when you called. Want one? With cream cheese?”

  I thought back to the cannelloni I’d had at lunch with Cara Ingalls. “I’d love one. As usual, I’ve forgotten to eat.”

  He laughed and disappeared into the adjoining kitchen.

  I sat down in front of the fire, trying to find a way to make my tale of art theft and smuggling sound credible. When Marcus returned with bagels smothered in cream cheese, I practically leaped at mine, not caring if I looked starved.

  Still hoping I’d have a brainstorm about how to present my theory, I stalled for time. “What happened to your wife?”

  Marcus looked surprised. “I guess being a private eye gives you an excuse for your nosiness. She got tired of being married to a dumb cop and went off to law school. She even did our own divorce.”

  He didn’t look too upset about it. And he wasn’t a dumb cop by any means. “And your arty friend?”

  “I rejected her proposal to make an honest man out of me, and she went off in a huff.”

  “Of course. Ladies don’t like to be turned down.” I munched on the bagel, licking my fingertips as politely as I could. Marcus watched me, amusement glinting in his eyes.

  I imagined my mother’s horror if she knew her well-bred daughter was talking to a cop with her mouth full. My mother had a deeply ingrained respect for good table manners … and the law. When I had finished the bagel, I said, “The murderer is Oliver van Osten.”

  Marcus stared at me. “The antique dealer?”

  I corrected him. “Fake-antique dealer.”

  “Right. Fake-antique dealer. What do you base this on?”

  I explained about van Osten’s business, Joan’s purchases from him, and the presence of a stolen masterpiece in the Salem Street shop. When I got to the method of smuggling the paintings inside shipments of commercially dutiable fakes, Marcus leaned forward with interest.

  “Van Osten has a European accomplice,” I said, “probably someone with the Italian firm, who receives the stolen paintings and slips them into the shipments to Joan. Customs doesn’t catch it because they’re looking for fakes masquerading as the real thing.

  “The way I figure it, when the paintings arrived at Salem Street, Joan would notify van Osten, who in turn would tell the collectors to pick them up. None of the smuggled artworks ever entered van Osten’s office, thus keeping him one step removed from the operation. An importer would be suspect, but not a cheap antique shop.”

  “Given all this,” Marcus said, “why would Joan Albritton get involved in such a thing?”

  “Because she needed money to send her grandson East to music school. And, from what I gather, Joan was a romantic. The idea of smuggling may have appealed to her fanciful side.”

  Marcus nodded thoughtfully. “So far so good. But why did she keep on doing it after the kid died?”

  “I think at first she felt she was in too deep to pull out,” I said. “But then the buildings
were condemned, and she knew she had to move. Charlie said she’d spoken of retiring. Van Osten may have killed her for backing out of the operation.”

  Marcus shook his head. “I think he’d be able to find someone else to receive the stuff. Killing Joan would be too great a risk and serve no real purpose.”

  “Maybe not, but there’s another factor. Van Osten may have thought she would double-cross him on the property deal.”

  “The property deal? You didn’t mention van Osten had bid for the land.”

  “He hadn’t, not directly. But I think he and Ben Harmon were partners. Harmon, with the same general set of plans as the Ingalls syndicate, was going to lease Joan a shop at a reduced rent, remember? She, in turn, could bring in a lot more stock and, naturally, a lot more stolen paintings.”

  Marcus grunted. “Then Harmon may be involved in the smuggling, too.”

  “Probably not from the first, but he could have found out about it from Joan when he started spending time with her after Christopher’s death. Then he could have pressured van Osten to give him a piece of the action.”

  “You think Harmon was after those properties all along? Could he have gotten that much money together? For real?”

  “Who knows? But I’m pretty sure he was responsible for the original arsons, although he did his best to implicate the Western Addition Credit Union. Charlie thinks so, too: he saw our friend Frankie around when a couple of the fires started.”

  “So why, if the deal was set, did Harmon throw bricks at Charlie’s shop the other night?”

  “He didn’t. As I said this afternoon, that was the murderer’s way of getting me out of the shop so he could take the Bellini. It was van Osten who threw the bricks; I recognized him when I saw his silhouette on the draperies at his apartment. I think he also set Bigby’s shop on fire to decoy your man away from Joan’s. Since there had been a rash of vandalisms before, people would naturally think these were more of the same.”

  “This is far-fetched enough to be true,” Marcus said. “Where does Cornish fit in?”

  “He doesn’t.” I repeated Charlie’s confession about the night of Joan’s murder.

  “Poor devil,” Marcus commented when I finished. “No one makes up a pitiful story like that. But back to van Osten: Why didn’t he take the Bellini with him that night and save himself all the trouble?”

  “He tried. He took the carton with the other paintings, but Joan had already removed the Bellini and hung it on the wall by Edwin, the mannequin with the iron shoes. That’s another possible reason for her murder: she may have held out on the Bellini. Why else would she have hung it up?”

  Marcus gave me a sharp look. “You haven’t given me any concrete proof. How do you know he took that box?”

  “I saw it. It’s in the supply closet at his office, and his records show it was delivered to Joan’s shop on Monday.”

  He frowned. “I suppose,” he said, “that you saw his records, too?”

  “Well …”

  He held up a hand. “Don’t tell me; I don’t want to know. But with the presence of the box, plus his records, you may have concrete evidence after all.”

  “There’s more evidence coming, too. A second shipment is due tomorrow. The delivery instructions were originally to Joan’s shop, but van Osten changed them on Tuesday, to his office.” I took my notebook out and read off the particulars.

  Marcus looked at me with excitement. “Good work! We’ll have to move in on van Osten’s office before he destroys that box or his records. And I’ll get in touch with Customs and arrange to examine this second shipment as soon as …” The muffled ring of the telephone cut him off. He got up and went into the kitchen.

  I leaned back and watched the fire, full of self-satisfaction. The case was virtually wrapped up.

  Marcus’s voice spoke behind me. “If van Osten murdered Joan Albritton, justice has already been meted out.”

  I turned to face him. “What do you mean?”

  He was reaching into a small closet for his trench coat while slipping out of his moccasins and into street shoes.

  “Van Osten’s dead. Murdered at his apartment. I’m going over there.”

  I stared at him, then stood up, gathering my purse and jacket.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Marcus asked.

  “I thought … well, I could go home or …”

  “Or come with me.” He regarded me with a bemused expression, then shrugged. “Oh, what the hell. I never knew a young woman with such a fondness for looking at dead bodies, but if that’s what you want to do, come on along.”

  22

  When we arrived at the brown-shingled building on Point Lobos Avenue, Marcus double-parked next to a blue-and-white cruiser. I jumped out of the car and hurried after him. I didn’t want to lose him; he was my entrée to the murder scene.

  The front door of the building stood open, and bystanders, many of them in bathrobes, were milling about. Marcus pushed through the crowd, and I followed in his wake. He took the carpeted stairs two at a time, following the sound of activity. I kept close behind.

  In apartment five, officials and lab technicians bustled about. My eyes immediately went to the sheeted figure on the floor and the blood spatters on the pale-yellow carpet. There was a great deal of blood. I stopped in the doorway, drawing in my breath.

  Marcus turned, noticing me for the first time, and gestured for me to come in.

  “I trust you know enough to keep out of the way and not touch anything.”

  I nodded.

  “Good.” He dropped a hand onto my shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze, then turned to a man in civilian clothes who had approached him. From the way he addressed Marcus, this was one of the detectives on his squad. I looked around while the two men talked.

  The room was furnished in a combination of functional modern pieces and antiques, the latter strategically placed to call attention to themselves. Van Osten’s taste in home decorating, unlike that of his office, had been impeccable, but tonight the room looked as though it had been sacked by a roving army of Huns.

  Drawers stood open, stuffing bled from gaping wounds in the upholstery, pictures hung at odd angles. Even the wastebasket had been emptied, its contents scattered on the floor, mingling with the blood. It reminded me of the destruction at Joan’s shop.

  Marcus turned back to me and said in a low voice, “It’s the same M.O. as the Albritton killing, and the medical examiner says the wound could have been caused by the same weapon. From the blood-spatter pattern, he must have fallen forward after he was stabbed, then tried to crawl after his attacker. The wound is to the jugular, which is why there’s so much blood.”

  I swallowed, my throat dry. “That long blade would make it an easy job.”

  “Right,” he said. “Whoever it was, he knew what he was doing. It’s a single wound, nice and clean.”

  “Van Osten must have known him then. I don’t think he was the sort to let strangers get too close to him. Could he have surprised someone in the process of searching?”

  “Doubt it. Neighbors say he was here all evening, and the stereo was on.”

  I asked, “Who found him?”

  “Woman across the hall. Evidently they were close friends. She came over to ask him to have a drink with her. The FM was playing, but he didn’t answer the door. She got worried and used her key.” Marcus glanced at the stereo setup on the wall. “Hey, Gallagher,” he said to the other detective, “what volume was that thing at?”

  “Around five.”

  Marcus nodded. “That’s loud enough to cover up most ordinary sounds.”

  He moved toward the body. I hung back, then followed unwillingly.

  Marcus lifted the corner of the sheet, and I saw van Osten, sprawled forward, his head twisted to one side, hand reaching out in a last desperate grasp. His face was rigid with horror, the eyes frozen. Even in death, he did not manage to convey anything with those eyes.

  I took a deep, shaky bre
ath, and Marcus looked at me. “You all right?”

  I was trembling and afraid I would start to hyperventilate. I forced myself to take shallow, well-spaced breaths. “I’ll be okay.”

  He flashed a look of quick understanding and lowered the sheet. “Don’t like dead bodies as much as you thought you did?” he asked gently.

  “I’ve never liked them, and I’ve seen quite a few.”

  “Neither have I.” He guided me away from the body, then went up to Gallagher and questioned him about the neighbors.

  Gallagher said none of them had heard anything. “The grove of trees across the street screens the building pretty well. With the overlook to Seal Rock and the Cliff House, plus the motel on the other corner, the residents don’t take much notice of strangers or strange cars.”

  I asked, “What about familiar cars? No one noticed a person who visited here frequently?”

  Gallagher looked at me in surprise. He was an earnest, owlish young man, and it clearly bothered him that he couldn’t figure out what I was doing there. After a few seconds he replied in the negative.

  When Marcus glanced at me, there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Then he said, “You’re thinking the same thing I am?”

  “Right. Van Osten’s probable partner has been here at least once that I know of, maybe many times more. He would suspect that van Osten had the Bellini. Look at the way the paintings have been cut: it’s a careful job.” I crossed to one hanging askew on the far wall and indicated the slashes.

  Marcus nodded. “Someone didn’t want to harm whatever might be concealed there.”

  We stood, looking at the canvas in silence.

  “All right,” Marcus said briskly. “Gallagher’s got everything under control. I suggest we go interview the girlfriend, this Dorothy Brosig.”

  We crossed to the opposite apartment. A small, dark-haired woman in a blue chenille bathrobe sat on the couch, her head bowed. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her slippered feet drawn tightly together. She raised a tear-stained face as we approached her, and I saw she was in her early thirties and attractive in a severe way. Three or four people who were clustered around the couch began to withdraw from the room.