Evans thought about that. “But I do have money. Four hundred thousand or so.”
I swallowed. “But that hotel...”
“It’s in the center of the art colony,” Evans said. “I wanted to be near the people I love.”
“But then what is your motive for killing?”
“Money, of course.”
“But you already have four hundred thousand.”
“It isn’t exactly for myself. I want to erect an arts building in Minneapolis. The Evans Art Center. That would require at least a million dollars, and I don’t have that much.”
I sighed and looked about the room. “Wipe your fingerprints from that poker and put it back. Also remove any other prints you may have left in the room.”
I watched him go about with a handkerchief. He raised quite a bit of dust as he wiped here and there.
When he was through, I extinguished the flame of the heater. The gas began to hiss into the room. “Let’s go,” I said.
Evans used his handkerchief to pick up the phone.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
He seemed surprised at the tone of my voice. “I’m calling a taxi.”
I closed my eyes. He was pretty pathetic. “I’ll drive you,” I said.
On the lake drive, with Florian’s home a good two miles behind us, I felt more at ease. “How did you get Schaller to electrocute himself in his tub?”
“I visited him one night and we had a few drinks. I put something into one of his, and when he passed out, I undressed him and put him in his tub. I filled it, and then dropped in the radio.”
That was about the way I had figured it. “But you blundered when you shot Wentworth. If the police had discovered that he was afraid of firearms, you could have ruined everything.”
“I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “But I’m not too good at this sort of thing.”
“How did you manage to drop that rivet on Naison’s head? Surely you didn’t climb up on the scaffolding and...”
“No. I put a wallet on the sidewalk in front of the building being erected. When Naison came along, he bent down to pick it up. At that point I shot a rivet from a slingshot and hit him on the top of the head. To the police it looked as though the thing had fallen from the building.”
I had to admit that was ingenious. “And I suppose you altered the steering mechanism on Terwilliger’s car so that he would have his accident?”
Evans shook his head. “No. Didn’t you?”
I rubbed my jaw. “That could have been an authentic accident. I suppose you struck Llewellyn over the head and then put his body on those railroad tracks?”
Evans looked at me. “No.”
We were silent for a while, and then Evans said, “Of course you pushed Dodsworth off his dock?”
“No.”
We drove on for half a mile.
“Dodsworth was the last to go, besides Florian, I mean,” Evans said. “And so if you didn’t... and I didn’t...”
I remembered the dust Evans had raised when he was wiping his fingerprints off various surfaces. I spoke more or less to myself. “One does not have a dusty house when one has four servants.”
Evans nodded slowly. “If one still has four servants.”
I also remembered the dark servants’ quarters over the garage. And it had been only ten o’clock. And the gas heater — certainly out of place in an extremely opulent home.
After awhile, Evans voiced our mutual discovery. “So Florian got rid of Terwilliger, Llewellyn, and Dodsworth. Evidently he needed the fund, too.”
And what now? I thought.
Evans was thinking of that, too. “I suppose I’ll have to kill you,” he said. “I really regret that, Henry, but I do think that Minneapolis needs my art center.”
We were in the traffic of the avenue now. Yes, I thought I would have to kill Evans, unless...
It was ridiculous... but still... considering Evans’s mental equipment...
“Evans,” I said. “I don’t believe it’ll be necessary for each of us to try to kill the other.”
“Really?” he asked hopefully.
I nodded. “We can split the fund.”
“But that’s impossible. Florian said our charter terms were absolutely unbreakable.”
“There is another way. I will write a suicide note and leave it, along with my coat perhaps, on a conveniently high bridge. The police will assume that I jumped off, was drowned, and that my body floated out into the lake.”
Evans considered that. “And then when I inherit the fund, I split it with you?”
“Well, not exactly. You see, I will have to disappear. Leave the country, as a matter of fact. It would be inconvenient and dangerous to our plan for me to reappear for my share. I have a much better idea.”
Evans waited expectantly.
“You say that you have some four hundred thousand dollars. Why not convert that into cash, give it to me, and then I will disappear. You will inherit the entire fund.”
Evans looked vaguely dubious.
“I’m perfectly willing to settle for four hundred thousand,” I said. “Even though my honest share should be half a million. You may consider the extra hundred thousand my contribution to your art center.”
Evans beamed. “That’s awfully decent of you, Henry. I’ll name one of the galleries in your honor.”
“Small bills, please,” I said. “But remember that this is our little secret. Don’t tell your lawyers why you’re converting your assets to cash.”
“Of course not,” Evans said stiffly. “Do you think I’m a fool?”
It took Evans two months to make the conversion to cash. I accepted the money, arranged my suicide, and moved to Mexico.
Evans inherited the fund, but I’m afraid that he was in for a bit of a shock.
Really, it is criminal how little the government left poor Evans. Something in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand, I believe.
And I, of course, had four hundred thousand intact.
Dead men do not pay inheritance taxes.
The Wrong Century
by Jay Bailey
I, me, little old Kelly John Kelly, was parked on a stool at the Terrapin Inn contemplating my future and drinking a cola. Whither, whence, thought I. Now, I pride myself on being a pretty good sculptor, or at least I’m in the process of becoming same, and I want to learn everything I can, including painting. I’d been studying at the art center and beating myself on the head because I didn’t know more. I’d just blown a sculpture that day and, as I’m a perfectionist and a fanatic (so was Michelangelo), I felt mighty low, mighty low indeed.
Anyhow, as I was sinking into my ratty old pea coat and my own self-abuse and misery, in walked this really impressive-looking beard, all gray and black, with a neat looking little old guy behind it. He was wrapped up in a nutty looking poncho, like he’d made it himself, and he had great big squeaky sandals on his dirty bare feet (and in this weather, too). Up here in Point Magiway, man, it gets really cold, so immediately I thought, wow, here’s a tough old character.
About this village, there are sure some great people who make it up like good rough and ready types, loggers and fishermen. The artists who can’t take it just disappear, and the really serious ones stay on and study at the art center. Only six teachers, but just fantastic, so this place is like the core of where it’s happening. Those teachers — oh, rats magoo, how can I say it, but they’re people who are just as fanatic as I am and that’s pretty far out. I’m not very articulate sometimes — I just know what I know. When I’m working with my hands, that’s a different matter. Then I don’t feel so sort of tongue-tied.
Anyhow, in walked this little man. He sat down beside me and of course we started talking, what with me being lonely and hating myself at the moment, and as it turned out we were both in the same racket, like art.
“My name is Wilfred Block,” said he, pulling his poncho around him and leaning over his coffee and sort of inhaling it.
“Hi,” I mumbled, hunching over my cola. Some character this! “I’m teaching, you know, my boy — up at the center. Do you know the center, lad?”
Well, did I know the center? Hell, yes. So we engaged in conversation and suddenly I felt greatness all around me, and my scuzzy beard embarrassed me because his was so good and old.
Pretty soon I was flipping out of my depression because this ancient guy could teach me about paint and like that, and so right there I enrolled in his painting class. Finally we were really buddy-buddy, like I was his son, and somehow the subject got around to a recent art theft in Southern California.
“Lad,” whispered Mr. Block as he sipped his coffee and pulled his shoulders up even higher, “one of the most magnificent paintings in the world was stolen. Did you know that, lad? Hey? Surely you’ve seen reproductions of Calagria’s work? No? What is this world coming to, tell me that, pray.”
I just sort of smiled and nodded and waited, knowing I’d get some information laid on me.
“My boy, the Venice Street Scene. The Venice Street Scene. Or, in this case you might call it the Venice Canal Scene...”
I thought to myself, Kelly John Kelly, this is a scene in itself, but I just kept my little mouth shut and waited.
“One of the most magnificent paintings on this planet, lad. Yes, stolen — by, if I remember correctly, Lawrence Weber Weeves. Fine artist, pity. At least all evidence points in his direction. I’ve seen the painting myself. Exquisite! You know, Calagria,” and here he started whispering, his eyes darting around, “was intelligent enough to use seasoned back-braced wood for his paintings. Each was covered with five coats of gesso, which if you don’t know, boy, is a blindingly white sort of chalk mixture.” Then his voice dropped even lower, almost like he was telling me some sort of crazy secret. “And with the patience of the Venetian craftsman that he was, he waited for each coat to become thoroughly dry, then rubbed it down with fine sand to give it a satin finish. IMPECCABLE! NOW, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT?” His voice rose almost to a shout and the waitress looked at us funny. Then he shot his elbow into my ribs and I choked on my drink.