“What’s your name?” Tibbs asked.
“I’m Brown-Walter Brown. The boss don’t like it I’ve got the same name he has, so he calls me Brown all the time. He wanted me to change it once, and offered to have his lawyer fix it up. I told him I liked it the way it was.”
“Good for you.” Tibbs thought a minute and decided to leave and take a different tack. “I’ll see you later.”
To Virgil’s surprise the chauffeur put down his tools to walk him part way back to the front gate. “If you need any more help,” he offered, “let me know.”
Tibbs thanked him and handed him his card. “I’m going to try to get invited to see Mr. McCormack. If you happen to see him yourself and can do so, I’d appreciate your telling him personally that a police officer has been trying to reach him concerning an important matter.”
Brown accepted the card and tucked it carefully away in an inner pocket. “Now wouldn’t exactly be the time to do that. He’s been pretty upset lately. You read the papers?”
Tibbs nodded.
Brown dropped his voice a shade, although there was no one to overhear him. “One of his good friends got himself killed in a nudist camp and he didn’t like that one bit. Enough so now he won’t even see his lawyer. Mr. Wolfram is different; he can usually get in any time.”
“Any time?” Tibbs inquired.
“That’s right, night or day.”
“Does anyone else have that privilege?”
Brown shook his head. “Nope. Mr. Wolfram’s the only one.”
“Is there a Mrs. McCormack?”
“There was, but she’s been dead a long time. A real nice lady, too.”
Tibbs digested this information during lunch and then drove down the coast highway. In order to relax as much as he could, he stayed in the right-hand lane, where he could take in the sweeping vastness of the water and let it work its unhurried magic on his spirit. When he felt that he had indulged in his reverie long enough, he reminded himself firmly of the job he had in hand and pulled up at a roadside telephone. The number of William Holt-Rymers, one of the four surviving stockholders of the Roussel holding company, was listed in Venice. Virgil dialed.
The phone was answered almost immediately. “Bill Rymers,” said a voice that was brisk but without harshness. It was a statement of fact.
Tibbs introduced himself and asked for an appointment.
“Where are you now?” Holt-Rymers asked.
Tibbs told him.
“Come on down-it’s an easy place to find. Be sure you turn off before Pacific Ocean Park. If you get there, you’ve gone too far.”
Virgil got back into his car and continued southward. He drove through Santa Monica and entered the less impressive Venice area, checking the street numbers as he went along.
A mile short of the amusement park he found the place he wanted; it was close to the ocean, fairly small, and wedged in between two other equally weather-beaten structures typical of close-to-the-beach property rented out on a weekly basis to summer visitors. The ancient wooden clapboards had been painted gray at some time in the past, as had all the other substandard buildings on the short block; now they had resigned themselves to the colorless hue bestowed upon them by sun, wind, and salt water. Virgil checked the number carefully and got out of his car.
The man who opened the door gave an immediate impression of height, leanness, and casual physical discipline. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, his face partly hidden by a short beard that suggested a jazz musician. Tibbs guessed him as about six feet, although he appeared taller because of his bare torso, which was tightly muscled and deeply browned by the sun. He wore Bermuda shorts and a pair of indifferent leather sandals, and a towel lay across his shoulders as though he had just come from a plunge in a nearby swimming pool.
“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.”