Part 3 (1/2)
On her arrival back at the art gallery, Diana immediately approached the manager, a nattily dressed little man with thinning hair that smelled of too much oil.
”I do not know his name,” she said disingenuously after she'd described Damon Bathory.
”I cannot give you any information about the gentleman, madam.”
”Can you tell me why he came here? What interested him?”
”That's privileged information. I do not discuss my clients' tastes.”
”If he is a client, then you must know his name.”
”No, madam, I do not. He did not give it.” Looking down his nose at her, he inquired, ”Is there something you would like to buy?”
”I'll look around,” she told him, and she did so, hoping for inspiration. If she only asked the right question, she felt certain she could learn something. The manager must have more information than he'd volunteered.
Most of the landscapes on display were well executed, but none compelled her complete attention until she came upon a canvas towards the back of the gallery. It was a large seascape, featuring s.h.i.+ps, brightly colored birds, and scantily clad maidens. The artist had signed it with the initials A. N.
”Excellent work, is it not?” Inexplicably, the manager sounded nervous.
”Interesting work. How has it been received by the critics?”
”Oh, them!” He waved a dismissive hand.
”Fit only to line a parrot's cage?” she guessed.
”Madam!”
”Perhaps a reference to Section 317 of the Penal Code.”
He drew himself up to his full height -- which made him only an inch taller than Diana -- and huffed out a breath. ”I a.s.sure you, madam, that neither this painting nor any of Mr. North -- ” He broke off, annoyed with himself for giving away the artist's name. ”That is to say, I can a.s.sure you that none of the work painted by this artist and handled by this gallery violates any city statute.”
Section 317 prohibited the showing or selling of prints, figures, or images that were ”obscene, lewd, lascivious, filthy, indecent, or disgusting.” The mere mention in her column of a painting that skirted the bounds of decency would no doubt lead to its immediate sale. Damon Bathory was right about that. The scandalous always had appeal for the ma.s.ses.
Diana's amus.e.m.e.nt faded when she realized she was no closer to learning anything about Damon Bathory. Whoever ”A.N.” was, he did not seem likely to have any connection to her a.s.signment. There was, it appeared, no clue here to explain Bathory's visit.
”The gentleman you spoke with earlier calls himself Damon Bathory. He's prominent in his field,” she said. ”He is a writer and lecturer.”
”Never heard of him.”
”Perhaps he'll come back and buy something.”
”Perhaps he will, madam, but many people simply stop in to have a look around.” The gallery manager gave her a pointed look.
By the time Diana retraced her steps to Union Square, she felt as if her feet were on fire. Nearly an hour had pa.s.sed since she'd left Poke on watch. He bounded towards her the moment he saw her coming, all but dancing up and down with excitement.
”He come right out again after you went,” Poke said.
”Did you follow him?”
”No need, missus.” Poke launched into a colorfully worded account of how Damon Bathory had rushed out of the hotel, entered Union Square Park, and accosted a man. ”Caught right ahold of him and give him a shake. My eyes, I thought he'd sock it to him.”
Diana blinked. It took her a moment to translate the slang. ”You thought he meant to rob the man and beat him up?”
Poke nodded. ”On de level.”
”This other man -- what did he look like?”
”One of doze guys wot gits lost in a crowd.”
Diana persisted, eliciting a bit more description. Like Bathory himself, the mystery man had been dark-haired, but he'd been clean-shaven save for a mustache.
”Taller or shorter than Mr. Bathory?”
”Hard to tell, missus. De bloke, he slumped.”
Puzzled, Diana urged Poke to go on with his tale, but there was not much more to it. The two men had argued a bit, although Poke had not been close enough to hear what they said to each other. Then Bathory had given the other fellow some money and hailed a cab for him. He'd watched it drive away, then gone back into his hotel.
Had the mysterious stranger been following Bathory, too? A creditor? A blackmailer? Whoever he was, it was too late to catch up with him now and Diana was glad of it. She'd had enough confrontations for one day.
”Are you certain Mr. Bathory didn't come out again?”
Poke a.s.sured her he had not.
Thoroughly confused by what she'd just heard, exhausted by the long hours she'd spent in a futile effort to learn something useful about the personal life of this man who wrote horror stories, Diana was reluctant to risk coming face to face with Bathory again. When Poke volunteered himself and two of his friends to keep an eye on the hotel for the rest of the night, she accepted with grat.i.tude.
”Mr. Horatio Foxe from the Independent Intelligencer will pay you,” she told him.
Poke's eyes lit up at that. The street arabs knew Foxe was good for the money.
”If anything interesting happens,” Diana continued, ”send word to me at Mrs. Curran's boarding house on 10th Street.”
She hoped the boy would not have reason to contact her. In dire need of a hot bath and a good night's sleep, she didn't even want to think about Damon Bathory again until tomorrow.
Seated at the breakfast table the next morning, Diana looked up as her landlady pushed aside a lace curtain to peer into the areaway used as a servants' entrance. ”And who would that be, knocking at my door at such an hour?” she said Abandoning her breakfast, Diana joined Mrs. Curran at the small window. They were the only occupants of the house who were up this early. The others, who kept late hours, were accustomed to sleep in. Diana blinked in surprise when she recognized a familiar face. ”Why, it's Horatio Foxe. My editor.”
”Whatever is he doing here?” Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Curran threw open the door and invited him in.
Diana wondered the same thing. Foxe had never visited her at home before. Somehow, she did not think he'd come in person to deliver the expense money she'd requested.
A few minutes later, his ever-present cigar clamped firmly between his teeth, he sat across from Diana at the recently scrubbed pine table. She resumed eating her usual morning fare, slicing a bite out of a tender beefsteak and chewing slowly as he watched her. In the quiet kitchen of Mrs. Curran's small house on 10th Street, with the cast iron cookstove warming the chill out of the morning air and the pleasant, familiar scent of yeast enveloping them, Foxe seemed as out of place as mourning dress at a wedding.
”You've seen the column?” He gestured at the pile of newspapers she'd been reading as she ate. She'd set aside the previous day's Evening Telegram and that morning's Times, Tribune, and World in favor of the latest Independent Intelligencer.
She nodded and dug into a mound of fried potatoes. As he'd warned, Foxe had tinkered with her text.
”What did he do this time?” Mrs. Curran asked, turning from the stove with the coffee pot in her hand.