The Shadow Portrait (7 page)

“Who do you think would buy a painting like this?” Crumpler demanded.

“I never thought about it. I saw something that intrigued me and I just wanted to paint it.”

“Oh, I assume you’ve got plenty of money, then! You’re not thinking of making a living. That’s good because you probably won’t.”

“I don’t have plenty of money, but I’ve got enough to pay the fees,” Phil said coolly.

Crumpler stared at Phil for a long moment, then grunted. “You can stay a week. After that we’ll see. Set up over there and start working.”

“Yes, sir,” Phil said, but as he turned his head, he winked at the blond woman, who giggled.

“I can give you some help,” she offered flirtatiously. “I know
how to get next to
all
the instructors . . . especially Mr. Bill Crumpler here.”

“Why don’t you go do something worthwhile!” Crumpler snarled. “You’re wasting your time here, Miss Warwick! You’ll never be an artist!”

“Is he always like that?” Phil asked as Crumpler walked over to observe the work of another student on the other side of the room.

“Always.”

Phil went to the side of the room with a window, set up his easel and the fresh canvas he had brought along, and began painting. As always, when he painted, he closed out the whole world and concentrated only on the canvas in front of him. He was painting a scene from memory—one that he had tucked away in his mind some time ago. It was of a street cafe in Paris where he had spent many hours talking with other aspiring young artists. He lost himself in bringing out the details as he put them onto the canvas. He could never understand the magic, or the miracle, as he thought of it, that occurred when he began to paint. Somehow out of his mind a memory would begin to take on a life of its own. It would go down his arm, and the brush in his hand would come alive, and soon the image he saw in his mind would begin to take shape on the canvas. It was not totally automatic, for he had to think and lay the strokes on according to the rules he had learned from the skilled painters with whom he had studied in Europe. It was the hardest work he had ever done yet at the same time an experience of sheer joy.

“I’ve been to that cafe. It’s on the Rue de la Pais.”

Startled, Phil turned around and saw Miss Warwick examining his work.

“That’s right. You’ve actually been there, Miss Warwick?”

“Sure. I spent two summers in Paris. When were you there?”

“I just got back from Europe,” Phil said. “I was in London for two years and Paris for a year.”

“Well then, we might have sat right next to each other at
that little cafe.” Her eyes sparkling suggestively, she sighed an exaggerated sigh. “Too bad we didn’t run into each other, Mr. Winslow. We might have had a good time. You may call me Avis, if you like.”

“And you can call me Phil. Have you been studying here long?”

“Depends on what you mean. I’ve been dropping in for a couple of years, but I don’t stay with it. Come on. You’ve had enough work for one day. Let’s go have a drink.”

Phil stared at the woman. Her brashness startled him, and yet he had met many women, especially in Paris, with that same sensuous look about them. She was about thirty, he guessed, and apparently had seen as much of the world as he had—or more!

“I don’t drink, but I’ll buy you supper,” Phil offered.

“You don’t drink? Now, that’ll be a switch. Come on, then.” They left the art institute, and she led him to a cafe two blocks away. “This is a good place,” she said. “Not much to look at, but the food’s good.” As soon as they had ordered their meal, Avis began interrogating him. She sat back, observing him carefully, then finally said, “So you’re a cowboy fresh in from Montana? A good-looking fellow like you won’t have any trouble getting all the girls he wants.”

“I guess I’ve come to paint—not to chase girls.”

“Is that right?” The statement seemed to be a challenge to Avis, and she smiled slowly. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

In the week that followed, Phil found himself spending more and more time with Avis Warwick. It didn’t take long to see that she possessed only a very minor talent for art and that painting was not a serious matter with her. Some days she did not come to the institute at all. One time she came in and stayed all day but threw away the canvas she had worked on with a curse. She was outspoken and drank freely—not at all the kind of woman Phil Winslow needed or wanted in
his life at that moment. Yet, despite his better judgment, he found himself going out with her after each day’s work for a meal together. He could not understand why she seemed so fascinated by him. Once she told him, “I’ve never met anybody like you, Phil. You don’t smoke, you don’t drink, you don’t run around with women. I thought cowboys were different.”

“Plenty of them are,” Phil shrugged. “I guess if it hadn’t been for my parents’ good upbringing, I would have been that way, too.”

Avis watched him for a moment, then asked, “You ever fall for a woman?”

“Once or twice.”

Avis reached over and put her hand on his, squeezing it. “Maybe you’ve been saving yourself for a real woman. We’ll find out about that, won’t we?”

Phil smiled at her but pulled back from her touch. “I don’t need any complications with women, Avis. If I’m going to be an artist, it’ll take everything I’ve got,” he murmured as he left her that evening.

The next morning was Saturday, and he decided to look up his cousin Peter Winslow. He had received a letter from Cass Winslow, who was an expert in the genealogy of the Winslow family. Cass evidently kept track of all of them, and the letter had read, “I don’t know if you’ve ever met my brother Peter Winslow, but he’s in New York. He wants to be a race car driver. We Winslows need to stick together, so go over and meet him, Phil. You’re about the same age, and all young fellows in a big city need a friend.”

Phil
was
feeling somewhat lonely and decided he would take Cass’s advice. He had no trouble finding the address. When the cabby stopped in front of a row of buildings, Phil walked up the steps to the brownstone and found the name
Peter Winslow
on one of the slips of paper under the mailboxes. Stepping inside the building, he found room number three and knocked on the door.

When no one answered he turned to leave, but a young woman stepped out of a room across the hall and studied him carefully. She was an attractive woman with enormous eyes, black hair, and a European look about her. He noticed a sizable scar on her left cheek that ran from her temple down to the corner of her lips.

“Are you looking for Peter Winslow?” she asked.

“Why, yes I am.”

“He’s out in the backyard working on a car. I’m going out that way.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m Phil Winslow.”

“Oh, you’re a relative of Peter’s?”

“A distant one.”

“I’m Jolie Devorak. Come along. He’ll be glad to see you.”

“Well, we’ve never met before.”

“That’s strange. You’re in the same family, but you’ve never met?”

“I guess there’re lots of Winslows.”

The two went out the back door at the end of the hall, and Phil saw two men working on a car painted a red so brilliant it almost hurt his eyes. On the side of it in fancy lettering was the name
Jolie Blonde.

“Peter, a relative of yours is here to see you.”

Peter Winslow had been half under the car. He came out, wiping his hands on a greasy rag, and gave Phil a curious look. “Family, you say?”

“I’m Phil Winslow. My father’s Zach Winslow. Your brother Cass, out in California, gave me your name and address. Said we Winslows ought to stick together.”

“Oh, sure! Cass knows every Winslow in the United States, I guess.” The two men shook hands. Peter was a very tall man, at least six two, about Phil’s age. He had hazel eyes, auburn hair, and a friendly grin. “This is Easy Devlin.” He gestured to an undersized man standing nearby with a wrench in his hand. He had a pale, thin face, sandy hair, and brown eyes.

“Glad to meet you, Phil,” Easy said. “Even if you
are
from the same family as this galoot!”

Jolie interrupted the introductions. “It’s time to go get something to eat. If we’re going to catch that auto show, we’ve got to go.”

“We’re all going to the National Auto Show at Madison Square Garden, Phil. Do you like cars?” Peter asked.

“Don’t know much about them, but I’d like to go. What’s the show all about?”

“Well, the automobile makers want to show off their new models in hopes of selling their cars. Other people just like to look around out of curiosity. There’ll be all kinds of makes,” Peter said. “Come on. I think it’ll be fun for you.”

Phil Winslow enjoyed the show thoroughly. He had never seen so many cars in all of his life, and Peter Winslow seemed to know everything about every one of them. “This is a Winton, Phil. It’s got a gasoline-powered engine—seems to be the wave of the future. They can go a lot faster than the steamers and electric cars. The Winton’s giving that Oldsmobile over there a run for its money.”

“What about Henry Ford? I heard he was up to something new.”

“He certainly is. He’s in a big legal battle now over patents to the gasoline engine, but he’s talking about building a good basic car at a price that common folks can afford. If he succeeds, it may be something that outsells all these others. Say, look! That’s Mr. Ford standing right over there!”

Startled, Phil stared at the tall man wearing the plain black suit. Ford was a sharp-featured man with a sober expression, and suddenly Ford looked up and saw the three.

“Why, Peter!” Ford smiled slightly and came over to extend his hand. “I’ve been wondering about you.”

“Hello, Mr. Ford. Good to see you again. These are my friends Jolie Devorak, Easy Devlin, and Phil Winslow.”

Ford spoke to the three, then said, “I’ve expected you to come back asking for a job, Peter.”

“Well, I thought about it, and I may yet. I’d sure like to work for you again, Mr. Ford. I’m really excited about your plans, but you know me. I’m working on a race car.”

“Still at it, are you? Well, you’ve got the head for it and the hands. I hope you do well, Peter. If you want a job, I’ve always got one for you.” Nodding, Ford turned and walked away, speaking to those he passed.

“So that’s Henry Ford,” Phil said. “I’ve heard a lot about him, and he wants you to work for him.”

“I did once,” Peter said. “I punched the foreman out and got fired.” He grinned rashly and winked at Jolie. “That’s when I hit the rails and ran into Jolie and Easy here. We were all hobos together, weren’t we?”

Jolie smiled and said to Phil, “You wouldn’t believe what happened. I shot a man who was trying to throw Peter and Easy out of the boxcar.”

Startled, Phil stared at the young woman who was beautiful despite the scar on her face. “Well, I’ll have to be careful and mind my manners if you tote a gun.”

“Oh, I don’t do that anymore,” Jolie said. “We’re all going to get rich with the
Jolie Blonde
here.” She laid her hand fondly on Peter Winslow’s arm, and he grinned down at her.

They wandered for some time through the vast selection of cars on display. They were speaking together about race cars when a young man standing close by evidently overheard their conversation.

“Excuse me. Are you in the racing-car business?”

“Trying to be,” Peter said. He gave the man his name and said, “We’re in a race next Saturday. Do you race?”

“No. I wish I did, though. My name’s Clinton Lanier.” After introductions were made, Peter asked, “What do you do, Clinton?”

“Why, I work in my father’s brokerage house.”

“Oh, a stockbroker! That sounds like a good life!” Jolie exclaimed.

“Good? It’s terrible! I go to the same old office every day.”

Jolie studied the young man, who was not over five ten but trim and well built. There was an air of money about him, something she had learned to discern long ago. “Why don’t you buy a race car and get into the swim yourself?” she asked.

“I’d like to, Miss Devorak, but my father—well, he doesn’t quite see things my way.”

“Well, that may be, but if you’d like to see the car that’s going to beat them all, you’ll have to drop in at the race next Saturday. It’s going to be a good one. People are coming from all over, but I think we can win. Don’t you reckon, Easy?”

Easy Devlin was rather gloomy as he replied, “I don’t know, Peter. It’s going to be hard—some stiff competition out there.”

Clinton was intrigued by his new acquaintances. He walked around with them at their invitation and fell into conversation with Phil. He found it fascinating that Phil was a cowboy and was going to be an artist.

“I guess I admire you a lot, Phil—giving up your family business to do what you really want to do.”

“Sometimes I think I’m the world’s biggest fool,” Phil shrugged. “But I’ve got to give it a try, or I’ll never forgive myself when I get old.”

Phil’s answer seemed to trouble Clinton, and he said little for a while. When it was time to leave, he said, “Can I give you a lift, Phil?”

“Why, sure.” They said good-bye to the others, and Phil got into Clinton’s horse-drawn buggy parked a block from Madison Square Garden. “I figured you’d have an automobile,” he said.