You know how damned life-like Pickman’s paintings were—how we all wondered where he got those faces.
—H.P. Lovecraft, “Pickman’s Model”
“SHAKE A LEG if you want to get past the doorman. I’ve got my ticket.”
I opened my eyes—and almost fell on my face.
“Steady, girl.”
I blinked against the noonday sun. From the traffic noise, the smell of leaded car exhaust, and clouds of tobacco smoke, I knew I was still in Jack Shepard’s time.
“Where are we now?”
“The other side of Manhattan. You okay, Penny?”
“It’s these shoes! Why do you keep insisting I walk on stilts?”
“Sorry, doll, it’s the fashion. And right now you’ve got to look fashionable because we’re on Park Avenue.”
I looked down and down even more, at my far-too-daring neckline. My face suddenly felt hot.
“Jack, this is way too risqué for me.”
“That’s the point. If you want to get past the doorman, you’ve got to look the same as those other dames who get brought here from the Pluto. Like I said, I already have my ticket.”
I took my first real look at Jack—and burst out laughing.
The PI had costumed himself in a white button-down shirt with speedy delivery splashed in bold letters across his broad back. Baggy white pants and a jaunty cap cocked to one side completed the uniform. As an accessory, Jack clutched a brown paper bag that smelled of pickles.
“You’re the most unconvincing sandwich boy ever.”
“It’ll get me through the door.”
I took one last look at my tarted-up self. “At least I’m not the only one who looks silly.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“So, Mr. Shepard, what’s the plan?”
As Jack briefed me, I took some experimental steps. I felt wobbly, but by the time we hoofed it to the Forrestal’s front door, I’d gotten the hang of it. I also got a few leering winks and wolf whistles. Then I laid eyes on the doorman and nearly lost my nerve.
His uniform would have done Mussolini proud, all knife-edged creases with epaulets and gold-trimmed collar and cuffs. His arms were crossed in front of him, his complexion was ashen gray, and his expression was a sneer meant for all of humanity.
And this is the guy I was supposed to sweet-talk? Climbing Everest in these heels might be easier!
Despite my trepidations, I dived right into my role, doing my best to achieve a street-girl persona.
“Hey, mister!” I paused to chew some imaginary gum. “This is where we girls go in, right?”
The doorman’s face remained rigid, but he flicked his hand like a fly buzzed his ear.
“Come on,” I pleaded. “I know this is the place. Can’t you be a sweet guy and let me in?”
“Amscray, before I whistle for a beat cop.”
“Don’t give me that. I was supposed to meet the gray-haired lady at the Pluto. But I was late.”
“You mean Gwen?”
“Yeah, Gwen.”
His face remained stony, and he didn’t budge an inch.
I was about to double down with my pathetic act when I felt a presence behind me. It was Jack, arriving right on cue.
“I got a delivery for the costume shop,” he announced, lifting his paper sack.
The doorman turned suspicious. “I never seen you around here.”
“My regular sandwich boy came down with the grippe. I’m the kid’s boss, but deliveries gotta be made, don’t they?”
Stone Face grunted. “Take the stairs to the basement. You’ll see the door on the left.” Then Stoney shifted his gaze to me. “You take the elevator on the right to the penthouse. Suite 1201. And don’t stop on any other floor or talk to any of the tenants. Got it?”
“Sure, mister, no problem.”
Now I knew where all those young women went, and so did Jack.
As we both hoped, once we were through the door, the gatekeeper forgot we existed. Jack feinted left, dodged right, and followed me into the elevator. The doors closed and we were alone.
“Jack,” I whispered as he pulled off his cap, “did you just say the regular sandwich guy has an STD—”
“A what?”
“Isn’t the grippe a venereal disease?”
“No, it’s influenza.” He made a face. “Focus on the job, will ya? Think you can pull this off and get inside?”
“I’ll do my best. And given what happened to Ruby, I’m glad you’re going in with me.”
With a ding, the elevator arrived on the top floor. The doors opened, and we stepped out. The entire floor was occupied by only three apartments. Twelve-oh-one had a sturdy oak door. I read the name above the doorbell.
ROLAND PRINCE
I stopped Jack before he touched the button.
“I know that name! There’s a painting by Roland Prince among the artwork that Walt lent to our shop. It’s a picture of a cowboy fighting a dinosaur. This man is a top-notch pulp artist—he’s painted over five hundred covers!”
“You don’t say,” Jack replied with a raised eyebrow.
He pressed the bell, and the door was almost instantly yanked open by a slender bald man wearing a vest and no jacket. The sleeves of his wrinkled white shirt were rolled up, and he clutched a phone with an ink-stained hand. In the middle of a conversation, he motioned us in with a wave.
I expected a luxury apartment, perhaps with a whole suite of rooms. But what I saw more resembled an artist’s assembly line.
The living and dining areas were occupied by rows of easels with artists (male and female, young and old) working hard at their craft. Some used live models, others worked from photographs, and all of their efforts were in various stages of completion, from rough sketch to final touches.
Bare bay windows let in strong sunlight, and I noticed naked bulbs strung up overhead by their own wires—presumably to keep the artists working late into the night.
Jack whistled. “What do you think?”
“Looks like Prince has turned his apartment into a pulp factory.”
“Factory,” Jack repeated, thinking over my term. “No smokestacks. But, yeah, I get your drift.” He put his cap back on his head. “And what about those dames being brought here from the Pluto? What do you make of that, trainee?”
“It’s clear enough. They’re being hired to work as artists’ models. And that’s obviously what Ruby was doing here with Nathan Brock.”
“And there’s your lesson again,” Jack said. “No matter the story you’re told, check the facts.”
While we gawked, the little bald man barked into the phone.
“What do you mean Dolly can’t make it? The cover for next month’s Cowgirl Belle on the Range is due on Tuesday. Dolly’s been the face of Belle since the first issue!”
He listened a little and replied. “Okeydoke, if Dolly needs more money, we’ll squash the deal and use the photos we took of her from now on.”
He slammed the phone down so hard the bell inside dinged. Then he turned away from a cluttered table to give us a stare.
“What can I do you for?”
Jack was about to announce a delivery, but I had a better idea.
“I’m here to see Gwen,” I said. “This is my big brother. He’s on his break and came along to make sure this job is on the up and up.”
“Sure, I get it,” the man replied with a benign smile. “A looker like you can’t be too careful. But don’t worry your pretty red head. We’re straight as an arrow around here.”
The bald man pointed. “Gwen’s at the fourth easel on the right.”
He shifted his gaze to Jack. “Don’t stick around long, brother. The boss doesn’t like strangers—or boyfriends pretending to be family. Got it?”
Gwen was the woman Spanos had described: fiftyish, gray upswept hair, classy manners, and plain clothes. We found her propped on a stool, adding the finishing touches to a pen-and-ink drawing depicting a female pirate swinging her sword at a sea monster.
She smiled when she saw us and followed my gaze to her picture.
“Yes, I know. The outlines are absurdly thick, but that’s the only way they’ll show on cheap pulp paper.” She extended her hand. “I’m Gwen Thomas, and you are?”
“I’m Penny and this is Jack.”
She closed the inkwell and tucked her pen behind her ear. Then she folded her arms and studied us with an appraising eye.
“So, what does Roland want from me today? Let me guess. I’m to paint a sultry housewife seducing a delivery guy cover for True Scandals.”
Jack stepped up. “Mrs. Thomas—”
“Miss.”
“We’re not here to pose. My name is Shepard. I’m a detective investigating the death of one of your models. A girl named Ruby Tyler.”
Unruffled, Gwen never lost her smile. Looking Jack up and down, she made a crack about Sherlock Holmes never pretending to peddle pickles.
Jack arched an eyebrow. “Got me in here, didn’t it? Now tell me what you know about Ruby.”
“Let’s see . . . dazzling smile, cerulean eyes, skin tone like ripe peaches and virgin cream. I knew the girl, but not well. Roland Prince might be able to help you. Ruby Tyler was very pretty, so he was probably better acquainted than I.”
“And this is his studio?” Jack assumed.
“That’s what Roland calls it. I see this place a bit differently.”
“How?”
“It’s a sweatshop, darling—one with very skilled workers who are getting unskilled wages and no credit.” Gwen sighed wistfully. “It’s not like my glory days, but it’s a paycheck, and at least I can practice my craft.”
“I recognize this business model,” I said. “Does Mr. Prince claim credit for all this work?”
“Of course he does. And if you question that, he’ll be sure to school you: ‘You don’t see my signature on your check until my name is on your painting.’”
“Do you know Nathan Brock?” Jack asked.
“Sure, he’s Roland’s golden boy.”
I wasn’t surprised. “Is that because Brock’s paintings are so much better than all the others?”
Gwen snorted. “Are you kidding? Honestly, I don’t think Roland could tell the difference between a decent piece of art and one that’s stinko. All he cares about these days is cabbage, and Nathan Brock is golden because he saved Roland a bundle by telling him about the Pluto. There are always unique faces and pretty girls at the diner with stars in their eyes, reading the trades for Theater District auditions. We grab them for modeling work, they’re paid in cash under the table, and Roland gets them for a song. No more professional modeling prices or agency fees.”
Gwen shrugged. “See what I mean when I say sweatshop?”
“Where can I find Mr. Prince?” Jack asked.
“That’s an easy one, Sherlock. End of that hall behind the big door marked private. But right now, that door is closed . . .”
She let the rest of the sentence fade, but you didn’t have to be a detective to understand her meaning.
“Don’t worry,” Jack said. “I won’t disturb Mr. Prince . . . much.”