Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 34, No. 13 & 14, Winter 1989

“This is nonsense.” He poured himself a gin, drank it, and set the tumbler down with a sigh. “That’s better. Look, this has all been a great shock, you know? Gerrit was a fine man. What has happened is terrible. And you — I am afraid you are suffering from an overwrought imagination. The painting is what it is, no more — a pretty little landscape — and it reminds Ambrose Voyt of the farming country where he was born — somewhere in Eastern Europe, I think. He’s a sentimental man. The picture is worth twenty thousand to him, and half that to anyone else. Less. Everything else is fantasy.”

I got to my feet.

Anna spoke. “Max and I have been here in the city the whole time you were gone. The whole time.” Her voice was earnest, and her eyes shining with the will to be believed.

I walked to the door at the head of the stairs.

“Where do I reach you?” Max’s voice was calm, but I heard the turbulence underneath. It reminded me of the blue sky Gerrit Till had painted over the unknown work.

“I’ll call you tomorrow after the banks are open,” I said.

Max came thumping into Hal’s apartment a little after half past ten in the morning. Anna was with him. I indicated the sofa. He handed Anna his crutches and they both sat down.

He gazed around the room as though he hadn’t a thing on his mind. “This is your friend’s apartment?”

I nodded. “It’s hideous, isn’t it?”

He looked at me for confirmation. “Who would do this to such a handsome old house?”

He turned to Anna.

“Oh, Max,” she said faintly, “I don’t want to talk about this.”

But Max was himself again. His hair had regained its fire. “That painting over your chair, Peter. Behind your chair, should I say? Dreadful!”

I turned my head and squinted up at the painting: broad black slashes crossing a dead-white ground. Up and down, left and right. Zip-zap.

“A poor man’s Kline,” said Max. “And if I am not mistaken, a left-handed painter.” He narrowed his eyes. “Who is it, Peter? Can you tell me?”

I obligingly swiveled around again. “ ‘P.H.,’ ‘P.L.,’ something like that.”

“Peyell?” He shrugged. “It’s not familiar.”

“Please, Max,” said Anna. “Can’t we do what we came to do and get out of here?”

“Of course,” said Max. “Peter, the painting.”

“The money.”

He brought out a sheaf of bills and placed them on the table beside the sofa. “Two thousand,” he said. “We’ll forget yesterday’s nonsense.”

“Forty.”

“No,” said Max. “I’m sorry Gerrit was killed. May I remind you, I have known him longer than you. And I’m sorry for his mother as well. She is a fine woman — no one should have to suffer so. But what happened has nothing to do with Anna or with me, nothing whatsoever. My dear friend, I must insist that you hand over the painting.”

I shook my head.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Anna jumped to her feet. “Max will give you the money, the forty thousand. All you are asking. We deceived you about the value of the painting, that’s true — but you wouldn’t have brought it out if we hadn’t, would you? You know you wouldn’t! We had no intention to place you in jeopardy and we didn’t! We didn’t! The customs people didn’t make any trouble, did they? What happened was a coincidence, a terrible coincidence! Unless—” a look of the remotest amusement crossed her face “—you didn’t do something foolish, did you?”

That wasn’t worth an answer and it didn’t get one.

“Max — pay him. You promised me — you promised me.”

“No,” Max said. “He has not a shred of evidence. Of course—” he looked at me “—the blackmailer is in a position of power. Accusation is a powerful weapon, a bludgeon. I assure you I understand that. But I repeat — you have no evidence.”

“Evidence can be gathered,” I told him. “Let’s say I start with the passenger lists of airlines flying into Schiphol on Tuesday.”

“I doubt if they will be made available to you.”

“The police will have no trouble getting hold of them.”

“Max, I beg you. He is crazy. He will make endless trouble.” Anna was staring at the floor, all color gone from her face.

Max looked at her for a long moment, a peculiar slanting look under half-lowered lids. “All right, Peter,” he said in a toneless voice. “I agree to your terms. Let’s have it.”

“The money, if you don’t mind.”

He reached into a pocket, and this time the roll of bills was considerably thicker. He threw them onto the little table with a gesture of contempt, then put out a hand and fanned the money across the surface. He didn’t remove his hand. “Don’t touch it.” There was no emotion in his voice, but a nerve jumped spasmodically under his eye. “I’ll have the painting first. You are to understand that this is your commission at ten percent of approximate value. That is all it is. It is neither an admission nor a coverup. It is an adjustment of price and an abatement of a nuisance.”

“Fine.”

“Let’s have it then.” He placed himself between me and the table, unsteady on his feet but managing without the crutches, which Anna was holding with a white-knuckled grasp.

I turned away from them and lifted the poor man’s Kline down from the wall.