The following afternoon, twenty-four hours after the funeral, Lancaster Corey came to see Magnus. He found him contemplating his porcelains lustfully.
"Corey, my good fellow, to what do I owe this dispensation?"
They wrung each other's hands like long-lost brothers.
"I'll not mince words, Magnus. I've come on business."
"I smelled sulphur and brimstone. Have a drink before you reveal your diabolical schemes."
He twisted the end of his white, crisp mustache. "I've got a great opportunity for you, my good friend. You know Jacoby's work. Getting more valuable every day."
Magnus made a sound with his lips.
"It's not that I'm trying to sell you a picture. As a matter of fact, I've already got a buyer. You know Jacoby's portrait of Lucy Heartfilia . . . several of the papers carried reproductions after the murder. Tragic, wasn't it? Since you were so attached to the lady, I thought you'd want to bid before . . ."
"I knew there was something divine about your visit, Corey. Now I see that it's your insolence."
He shrugged off the insult. "Merely a courtesy."
"How dare you?" Magnus shouted. "How dare you come to my house and coolly offer me that worthless canvas? In the first place, I consider it a bad imitation of Speicher. In the second place, I deplore Speicher. And in the third, I loathe portraits in oil."
"Very well. I shall feel free to sell it to my other buyer." He snatched up his Fedora. "Wait a minute," Magnus commanded. "How can you offer what you don't own? That picture is hanging on the wall of her apartment now. She died without a will, the lawyers will have to fight it out."
"I believe that Mr. Heartfilia, is assuming responsibility for the family. You might communicate with him or with Salsbury, Haskins, Warder, and Bone, his attorneys. The landlord, I heard this morning, had released the estate from its obligation to fulfill the lease on condition that the apartment is vacated by the first of the month. They're going to make a special effort to hurry the proceedings . . ."
His knowledge infuriated Magnus. "The vultures gather!" he shouted, smacking his forehead with an anguished palm. And a moment later cried out in alarm: "Do you know what arrangements have been made for her other things? Whether there's to be a sale?"
"This bid came through a private channel. Someone who had seen the portrait in her apartment, no doubt, made inquiries of several dealers. He hadn't known that we were Jacoby's agents . . ."
"His taste makes it clear that he knows very little about painting."
Corey made a purse of his lips. "Everyone is not as prejudiced as you are, Magnus. I prophesy the day when Jacoby will be worth real money."
"Comfort yourself, my sweet buzzard. Both you and I shall be dead by that time. But tell me," he continued mockingly, "is your prospective sucker some connoisseur who saw the picture in the Sunday tabloids and wants to own the portrait of a murder victim?"
"I do not believe that it would be strictly ethical to give my customer's name."
"Your pardon, Corey. My question must have shocked your delicate sensibilities of a businessman. Unfortunately I shall have to write the story without using names."
Lancaster Corey responded like a hunting dog to the smell of rabbit. "What story?"
"You have just given me material for a magnificent piece!" Magnus cried, simulating creative excitement. "An ironic small story about the struggling young painter whose genius goes unrecognized until one of his sitters is violently murdered. And suddenly he, because he had done her portrait, becomes the painter of the year. His name is not only on the lips of collectors, but the public, the public, Corey, know him as they know MiraJane for instance. His prices skyrocket, fashionable women beg to sit for him, he is reproduced in Life, Vogue, Town and Country . . ."
Magnus's fantasy so titivated Corey's greed that he could no longer show pride. "You've got to mention Jacoby's name. The story would be meaningless without it. And a footnote, no doubt, explaining that his works are on view in the galleries of Lancaster Corey. That wouldn't hurt."
Magnus spoke bitterly. "Your point of view is painfully commercial. Such considerations never enter my mind. Art, Corey, endures. All else passes. My piece would be as vivid and original as a Jacoby portrait."
"Just include his name. One mention of it," Corey pleaded.
"That inclusion would remove my story from the realms of literature and place it in the category of journalism. In that case, I'd have to know the facts, even if I did not include all of them. To protect my reputation for veracity, you understand."
"You've won," Corey admitted and whispered the art-lover's name.
Magnus sank upon the Biedermeier, laughing as he had not laughed since Lucy had been there to share such merry secrets of human frailty."
Along with this genial and amusing tidbit, Corey had, however, brought some distressing information. As soon as Magnus had got rid of him, he changed his clothes, seized his hat and stick, and bade Roberto to summon a taxi.
Hence to Lucy's apartment, where he found not only Mrs. Treadwell and her father, whom he had expected to find there, but Vincent and the Pomeranian. Lucy's aunt was musing on the value of the few genuinely antique pieces with her brother, Vincent taking inventory, and the dog sniffing chair legs.
"To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?" cried Mrs. Treadwell, who, in spite of expressing open disapproval of his friendship with her niece, had always fluttered before his fame.
"To cupidity, dear lady. I have come to share the booty."
"This is a painful task." She sank back into an upholstered chair watching, through heavily blackened lashes, Magnus's every movement and glance. "But our lawyer simply insists." She watched Magnus, she did not trust him. Her brother had been a wreck all morning, understandably so. He brother was adjusting, she had been there for him when Layla died. But this was different. She didn't need to divide an estate then, now she did.
"How generous of you!" Magnus chattered. "You can spare yourself no pains. In spite of grief and sentiment, you carry on bravely. I dare say you'll account for every button in poor Lucy's wardrobe."
A key turned in the lock. They assumed postures of piety as Laxus entered.
"Your men let us in, Mr. Dreyar," explained Mrs. Treadwell. "I called your office, but you weren't in. I hope there's nothing wrong about our . . . our attempt to bring order. Poor Lucy was so careless, she never knew what she owned."
"I gave orders to let you in if you came," Laxus told her. "I hope you've found everything as it should be."
"Someone has been in the closet. One of the dresses has fallen off the hook and perfume was spilled."
"The police are heavy-handed," was Magnus's innocent observation.
Laxus, he thought, took extra pains to appear nonchalant.
"There's nothing of great value," Mr. Heartfilia remarked. "I loved her. But Lucy would never put her money into things that lasted. But there are certain trinkets, souvenirs that people might appropriate for sentimental reasons."
Magnus took direct action. "Perhaps you know, Jude, that this vase did not belong to Lucy." He nodded toward the mercury glass globe upon the mantel. "I'd merely lent it to her."
"Now, Magnus, don't be naughty. I saw you bring that vase on Christmas, all tied up in red ribbons. You must remember, Vincent." Susan said.
Jude shook his head. 'Magnus was up to the same damn shit as always.' Vincent looked up as if he had not heard the argument. The role of innocence, he knew by experience, would protect him equally from my wit and her revenge. "Sorry, darling, I didn't hear what you were saying." He returned to his inventories. Jude laughed grabbing some liquor from the cabinet...'and same old Vincent.'
"Not ribbons, dear lady. There was a string tied to my Christmas package. Lucy wasn't to give it away. You know that Spanish prodigality of hers, handing things to anyone who admired them. This vase is part of my collection and I intend to take it now. That's quite in order, don't you think, Dreyar?"
"You'd better leave it. You might find yourself in trouble," Laxus said.
"How petty-official of you! You're acting like a detective."
He shrugged as if my good opinion were of no importance. Magnus laughed and turned the talk to inquiry about the progress of his work. Had he found any clues that might lead to the murderer's house?
"Plenty," he taunted.
"Oh, do tell us," Mrs. Treadwell begged, sliding forward in her chair and clasping her hands together in a gesture of rapturous attention. Vincent had climbed upon a chair so that he might record the titles of volumes on the topmost bookshelf. From this vantage point, he glanced down at Laxus with fearless curiosity. Jude looked at the younger mage with dead hopeful eyes. The Pomeranian sniffed at the detective's trousers. All awaited revelation. All Laxus said was, "I hope you don't mind," and took out a cigar. The snub was meant to arouse fear and bid them mind the majesty of the law.
Magnus seized the moment for his own. "It might interest you to know that I've got a clue." His eyes were fixed on Mrs. Treadwell, but beyond her floating veil the mirror showed me Laxus's guarded countenance. Jude's eyes narrowed, 'what was Magnus up to?'
"Do you know there's an art lover connected with this case? As probable heir, Mrs. Treadwell, you might be pleased to know that this little museum piece—" Magnus directed her attention to the Jacoby portrait "—has already been bid for."
"Really! How much?" Susan cried.
"I'd keep the price up if I were you. The portrait may have a sentimental value for the buyer."
"Who is it?" asked Vincent alarmed.
"Someone we know?" Jude asked.
"Do you think there might be a clue in it?" Magnus asked mischievously. Jude rolled his eyes, Laxus caught it and smirked. It restored his humor seeing Jude hating the man. "If this is a crime passionnel, the killer might be a man of sentiment. Don't you think the lead's worth following, Dreyar?"
His answer was something between a grunt and a sigh.
"It's terribly exciting," said Mrs. Treadwell. "You've got to tell me, Magnus, you've just got to."
Magnus was never a child to torture butterflies. The death agonies of small fish have never been a sight that he witnessed with pleasure. Even on the stage he prefer death to follow a swift, clean stroke of a sharp blade. To spare Laxus's probable blushes he spoke hastily and with the air of gravity: "I cannot betray the confidence of Lancaster Corey. An art dealer is, after all, somewhat in the position of a doctor or lawyer. In matters of taste, discretion is the better part of profit."
Magnus sought his eyes, but Laxus turned away. Jude set down the bottle in his hand, he watched the exchange. "Well I look forward to meeting the young man who purchased it and thanking him." Laxus next move, Magnus thought, was meant to divert conversation, but he learned later that he had had a definite purpose in meeting Vincent here this afternoon.
"I've been working and could use a drink," he announced. "As chief trustee, Mr. Heartfilia, would you mind if I took some of Lucy's liquor?"
"How stingy you make me sound! Vincent, be useful. I wonder if the fridge is turned on." Jude said.
Vincent leaped from his perch and went into the kitchen. Laxus opened the corner cabinet.
"He certainly knows his way about this apartment," Magnus observed.
He paid no attention. "What do you drink, Mrs. Treadwell? Yours is Scotch, isn't it, Lydecker?"
He waited until Vincent returned before he brought out the Bourbon. "I think I'll drink this today. What's yours, Sawarr?"
Vincent glanced at the bottle, decorated with the profiles of three noble steeds. His hands tensed, but he could not hold them steady enough to keep the glasses from rattling on the tray.
"None—for—me—thanks."
The softness had fled his voice. He was harsh as metal, and his chiseled features, robbed of color, had the marble virtue of a statue erected to the honor of a dead Victorian.
AN: I got tons to do today. This and Can You Feel It? updated today and some one shots and maybe a new story...not sure on the new story.
UPDATE: WLSC has been delayed slightly! My beta is sick and the second half is not done. I'll be tweaking until she is a 100. Sorry to anyone on here who follows that story, but you can probably guess why this one has been more updated here recently than the others because of that.
Shout outs too...HarukaTsukinoTenoh, xSnowey, mbaughman381, KAWAIINECKO Thank you :)
Yo so side notes in the actual novel was dying to know who exactly bought the portrait. I would have died waiting for this to come out because this originally was serialized in a magazine im 1942 I believe so you got the next chapter when the next magazine came out! Totally would have died LOL hope everyone is doing well thank you!