The Resurrection Man (2 page)

“Because from six to eight, Bartolo cooks. At eight we eat, is ritual solemn and uplifting. We are all wearing green velvet smocks and floppy berets with flowing silk tie in Rembrandt style. I am only one without beard, is pleasant contrast.”

“Naturally it would be,” Max agreed gallantly. “Why the smocks and berets?”

“Is more meaningful than soup and fish with silly little bow like cat’s whiskers. We are of the new renaissance, we dress according.”

“And after dinner you get to lick the dishes clean?”

“Bah, Bittersohn, you grow stupid with fatherhood. For dishes is serf in peasant costume with sleeves rolled up. Also to clean house and make beds in Hanseatic style with feathers inside. We are classy outfit, I can tell you.”

“I can well believe it,” Max replied somewhat abstractedly. “Are you saying you and the rest of the crew all live there with Arbalest?”

“Not crew. Is guild. Is time-honored custom for master and assistants to live together, though not much practiced since about maybe fifteenth century, except apprentices not getting paid and needing to be kept alive for purposes of exploitation. Great advantage of living together is everybody get to atelier on time not too hung over to do good day’s work. Bartolo covers all bases, is no flies on him.”

“No flies?” Max was outraged. “How the hell does Arbalest think he can run a medieval guild without any flies?”

Lydia Ouspenska shrugged and began adjusting her scarf. “Flies more authentic, I grant, but get stuck to paint and gilding size, disturb concentration by buzzing around. Voting by guild members is one hundred percent in favor of no flies, for reasons of not having wings and feet and mangled bodies providing more authenticity than clients care to live with. I must go. I am in quest of truffles for Barto to make pâté.”

“Shouldn’t you have brought a pig along with you to sniff them out?”

“You are amuse, Bittersohn, but not very. I will come to dine
chez vous
sometime when Barto take night off and send out for moo-goo-gai-pan with fortune cookies.”

“That would be great, Lydia, we’d love to have you. I’ll have Sarah give you a ring. What’s your phone number?”

“Personal calls to members of guild is not acceptable to Barto, I will appear out of blue like tooth fairy and surprise you.
Au revoir, mon bon bourgeois
.”

“See you later, Mrs. Rembrandt.”

Lydia and her scarf floated off, heading for Charles Street and Deluca’s grocery store, Max surmised. Lydia probably wouldn’t want to walk any great distance in those needle-toed shoes she was wearing; did that mean Bartolo Arbalest’s medieval ménage was somewhere fairly close by? Or did it mean that Lydia had treated herself to a subway ride?

The self-styled countess must be old enough by now to qualify for a senior-citizen’s pass. It wouldn’t be like her to pass up a bargain, but would she have been willing to admit her real age? Maybe one of Bartolo’s artisans was doing a sideline in authentic subway tokens. Max took hold of the bench back with one hand, planted his cane tip firmly in the sand under his feet, and hoisted himself upright with only a twinge or two. It wasn’t much farther to the office, he hoped Brooks hadn’t had to go out on some urgent errand.

No, Brooks was in and delighted to see him. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise. All by yourself, eh? And no problems?”

“I’m not sure,” Max said. “I ran into one of your old girl friends on the Common. Remember Lydia Ouspenska?”

“Of course. How could I not? But on the Common? Don’t tell me she’s down to panhandling?”

“Oh no, she was just passing through on her way to buy truffles. Lydia looks better than I can recall ever having seen her. She’s eating regularly and high on the hog, or so she claims, and she’s gainfully employed as a gilder in a guild. Ever heard of the Resurrection Man?”

“Why, yes, now that you mention it. I assume you’re not referring to the ghouls who used to rob graveyards, ergo I deduce that you may be referring to a chap named Bartolo Arbalest who has a little shop on Third Avenue in New York where he does some restoring and odd jobs. Quite well, as I recall. He wears a smock and beret and trims his beard in the style of the late Rembrandt van Rijn.”

“Right on the name, the beard, and the beret. Wrong on the address, unless Lydia’s doing a hell of a commute. From what Lydia told me, I gather Arbalest’s here in Boston and has either bought or rented a house big enough to accommodate not only himself and his studio—sorry, atelier—but also Lydia and an assortment of other people who work for him. It’s an old Renaissance custom, she tells me. Each of them is a specialist in some aspect of restoration.”

Brooks nodded. “A cozy arrangement. Are they—er—”

“Lydia says she’s the only one without a beard, but that doesn’t help much. They all get together around the wassail board every night wearing velvet smocks and berets, and Barto, as she calls him, cooks them a banquet. Unless he isn’t in the mood, at which times they send out for fortune cookies.”

“Do you know, Max, I think Lydia may have told you the exact truth, oddly enough. Bartolo offered me a job once. This was back in New York, of course; I’d no idea that he might have immigrated. Anyway, one of his conditions was that I’d have to dress as he did: velveteen smock, great flopping beret, one of those silly bow ties getting into the turps or whatever every time I bent over. Naturally I explained that wasn’t my style and that was the end of it.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Oh, quite a while. As much as twenty years, I’d have to stop and think back to give you an exact date. I’ve been something of a rolling stone, you know. It was after I’d stopped my lecture tours, but before I started doing bird calls at children’s parties and odd jobs at the Wilkins Museum. The parties were rather fun, actually. Perhaps you’d let me do one for Davy when he’s about eight years old. Eight’s a good age for bird calls.”

“It’s a deal. Davy’s already imitating blue jays out at Ireson’s Landing. He runs around flapping his arms and squawking.” Max smiled, a trifle ruefully. “Lydia says I’ve turned into a
bon bourgeois
.”

“Pah, how would she know? Max, this is extremely interesting information. Don’t you think we ought to pay Bartolo a call sometime soon, just on general principles?”

“S
OUNDS GOOD TO ME,”
said Max, “but it may not be that easy. I asked Lydia for the address and she wouldn’t give it to me. She says Bartolo doesn’t want anybody to know, including his clients.”

“Then how can he conduct business?”

“Contacts are made by telephone or by writing to a box number, then Bartolo pays a personal visit to the prospect, gives an estimate and a snow job, and takes the work away with him. When the piece is fully resurrected, he takes it back and collects his money. The rest of his money, that is; I’m sure he must extract a down payment when he takes on the job.”

“He’d be crazy not to,” said Brooks. “Does this rigmarole suggest to you what it does to me? How do the clients find him? Through the Mafia?”

“Yes, it does and no, they don’t, according to Lydia. She claims they come through referrals from galleries and the auction houses. She may have wrong information or she may be lying, she’s always been pretty good at both. On the other hand, supposing it’s not stolen merchandise. Can you see anybody owning a piece important enough to warrant restoration at the kind of price Bartolo must charge being dumb enough to let him cart it off to an unknown address, unless they’d first got ironclad guarantees of his bona fides?”

“Certainly I can. What about Cousin Apollonia? Or Uncle Frederick, for that matter, though of course you never knew him. Old Fred prided himself on being an infallible judge of character, so naturally he got stung at an average of once a week. However, I do see your point, Max. Did Lydia give you any explanation for the secrecy?”

“She claims it’s a matter of security. Bartolo’s argument is that by concealing the whereabouts of his studio, he keeps thieves from coming and pinching the clients’ treasures.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Brooks conceded, “though not a great deal.”

“Lydia did mention that it’s also a way for Bartolo to keep from having to carry huge theft insurance,” Max added.

“There is that angle to be considered.”

“She also says Barto, as she calls him, is a very persuasive guy.”

“And how right she is,” Brooks agreed. “Talking to Bartolo Arbalest used to make me feel rather as if I were having an audience with the archbishop of Canterbury. Not that I’ve ever so much as laid eyes on the archbishop myself, but that’s the general sort of feeling Bartolo evokes. Yes, I should say he could talk almost anybody into almost anything.”

“He couldn’t talk you into a velvet beret, though.”

“Don’t forget I’m a Kelling, my boy. I grew up in a tough school. You know, I’m finding it difficult to picture Bartolo as a fence’s assistant, if that’s what you have in mind. Disguising stolen paintings so they can be smuggled out of the country, that sort of thing?”

“It happens. What’s your problem?”

“Well, I know that times change, and people with them, but back when I knew him, Bartolo Arbalest had a very strange reputation, considering the neighborhood he worked in. He was reputed to be absolutely, scrupulously, quite disgustingly sea-green incorruptible. But you know. Max, it does boggle the mind to think of Lydia Ouspenska’s being linked up with anyone incorruptible. Oh dear, I hope she’s not in trouble again.”

“You and me both. Maybe I’d better call Sarah.”

“Good idea. Sarah’s fond of Lydia, you know. She does tend to like people; I can’t think where she gets it from. Both her parents had about as much human feeling as a pair of frozen bluefish, though I always thought Elizabeth might have amounted to something as a human being if she hadn’t married Walter and become so involved with Thoreau. But why involve Sarah? Why don’t I toddle along and—”

“Lydia knows you too well, she’d spot you in a minute. Let’s just see who’s—hi, Kätzele, what’s up? No, no problems. I’m with Brooks at the office. Listen, I bumped into Lydia Ouspenska on the way here. She’s probably at Deluca’s by now and I want her tailed. Is either Charles or Mariposa available? Lydia knows Charles, he’d have to disguise himself pretty well. I don’t think she’s ever seen Mariposa. Okay, either or both, only tell them to make it fast. She’s wearing a black vintage outfit with white trimming and a black hat the size of a cartwheel, put on sideways. And carrying a parasol, she’d be hard to miss. No, no stakeout, I just want to know where she goes with the truffles. Over to you, kid. See you in a while.”

Max hung up the phone. “Sarah’s going to take Davy for a short walk. She’ll try to intercept Lydia at the corner of Beacon and keep her talking till Charles gets his false whiskers on, then he and Mariposa will take over. Too bad Theonia’s out on assignment, she could have done her bag-lady act. Have you heard from her?”

“An hour ago,” said Brooks with quiet pride. “The miniatures were exactly where you thought they’d be. I’m to meet her and Mrs. DeMorgan at Back Bay, take them to lunch at the Copley, Theonia will hand over the goods, and I’ll collect the fee. Can you manage the office till three or so? There’s that chap coming in about his Degas ballerina.”

“No problem. What else?”

The two occupied themselves agreeably for a while discussing various malefactions currently on the books and thinking up interesting ways to deal with them. Then Brooks went off to keep his appointment and Max began making phone calls, as was his wont. He’d completed a fair amount of business and rounded up one or two new jobs by the time Brooks got back from his luncheon with the ladies, having deposited the check on the way.

They were beginning to think seriously of shutting up shop, turning on the answering machine, and going home to see what their secret agents might have turned up on Lydia Ouspenska when a slight, dark figure slunk furtively through the door and closed it noiselessly behind him.

“Ah,” said Max, “enter the little brown man with the blowpipe. Still looking for the eye of the idol, Bill?”

“Su-ure. Hi, Brooks. How’s it going, Maxie?”

Bill Jones, as he preferred to be called, was wearing what he always wore: a cotton shirt that might or might not have been changed during the past week, a pair of chinos in somewhat worse condition, and shabby moccasins. No socks, Bill only wore socks during months that had an R in them. He also owned a dirty old raincoat, but this was hardly the weather for that. The summer sun had tanned him dark as a Bedouin, though some of it might have been dirt.

Seeing him thus, few would have guessed his guilty secret, that Bill Jones was in fact the younger brother of Boston’s richest and most influential Greek importer and that he himself was a successful commercial artist whose idea of a wild night on the town was to attend a poetry reading with some attractive Radcliffe woman who’d either made or was about to make Phi Beta Kappa. That Bill had often gone from such highbrow revels to share Lydia Ouspenska’s bed at the Fenway Studios, when she’d lived there, was no reflection on his morals. The relationship had been, in Lydia’s own words, purely Plutonic; it was just that Lydia didn’t own a spare mattress. Bill was just the man Max had been hoping to see.

Bill might in fact have come looking for Willkie Collins’s
Moonstone
, he was generally looking for something. Usually it was information he sought, not for any special reason, Bill just liked to know.

Being scrupulously honest and the epitome of discretion, Bill got to know a great deal, of which he repeated very little. He was thus an invaluable friend and ally to Max, seeking no reward except an occasional invitation to dinner at Tulip Street so that he could sneak appreciative glances at Sarah and Theonia out of the corners of his soulful dark eyes. It probably wasn’t by chance that he’d come here at so opportune a moment, he might well have been trailing Max across the Common to make sure he didn’t get into any trouble walking alone. Doing good by stealth was Bill’s forte.

Of course stealth was what Bill did everything by, even communicating. He didn’t so much speak as breathe his words, and he didn’t even breathe very often, at least not so that anybody could notice. While he could talk perfectly well when the mood was upon him, he frequently preferred to put his messages across by shrugs, glances, and drawing pictures in the air. His hands weren’t much bigger than Sarah’s. Right now they were fluttering like a pair of sparrows after the same crumb, eager to respond to what Max was about to tell. Max obliged.