Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

“No — I insist, no — the picture was a bit out of line — I merely tried to straighten it—”

“And who, sir, are you?” he asked, raising his gray eyebrows.

“I,

sir,” I announced as I straightened, “am Lawrence Weber Weeves, artist, teacher, and you have a painting of mine hanging somewhere in this embarrassing establishment. Now,” I said, brushing the sleeves of my capacious coat, “I would like the courtesy of an apology immediately.”

“Oh, my,” mumbled the distraught and harrumphing curator (I forget his name — it wasn’t worth my time and effort to remember it). “Mr. Weeves, please accept our apologies, sir. What can we do to make amends? Would you enjoy a glass of fine claret, which I, ahem, keep on hand for the pleasure of distinguished guests? My, my, I am so dreadfully sorry.”

“I’ll accept, sir, and gladly.”

As I sipped and chatted, my plan was there,

as though the muse had whispered into my ear — a truly creative plan indeed.

“Yes, well, to make amends, you say. I would be delighted if you would allow me to peruse your extremely fine museum for two hours, buzzers off, and let me straighten paintings to my heart’s content.”

“Mr. Weeves, it will be a pleasure.”

We shook hands, toasted each other, and for a while I reveled in paintings, straightening one here, dusting one there. Then I bade farewell to the curator, and as an afterthought I said, “Sir, there is a small Bonnard I wish to observe again — I’ll just leave by the back entrance, and thank you, sir.”

I tipped my hat, went swiftly down the hall to the Calagria in the dim corner, removed it from the wall, and slipped it under my coat, and then I walked out, got into my car and disappeared into the fog. I drove directly to my bank, removed my small savings, and simply vanished, leaving my personal belongings and that college town forever.

Well, yours truly, little old Kelly John Kelly, went to Mr. Block’s pad. Too much! There was an old mandolin in the corner and prints and paintings were stuck all over the redwood walls and, believe it or not, there was a skull on a big desk with a candle burning in it. I later found out the old guy had lived in the mountains for a couple of months, digging for stuff, and he guessed the skull was Indian. On the scarred table in the middle of the kitchen was a huge loaf of French bread, with a stiletto, yet, lying beside it. It sure was a wicked looking knife; also a big hunk of salami and a jug of local wine, the kind that turns your teeth black. He wasn’t kidding when he said meat, bread, and wine. His eyes glowed and I was beginning to think he was some kind of nut, but then most artists are sort of, you know — odd — but Mr. Block was giving off really weird vibrations, like he was going to show me a corpse or something.

After we had eaten — man, it was good — and talked about painting, he suddenly yelled wildly, “AND HERE IT IS!” I almost heard trumpets and drums. He jumped up and threw some curtains apart at the end of the kitchen and here was this little bitty picture. Then he flipped on a little light and, man, I almost died. I crept up closer and closer and there it was, just like he said. Those Venice people were walking and talking and breathing

and, well, it was just too much! But I knew something else, too. I’m no dummy. This was no copy, man, this was the real thing! Thousands of bucks’ worth of picture, right there in front of my little scared eyes. This was most definitely not Wilfred Block. This was Lawrence Weber Weeves, who had very neatly pulled the theft of the decade.

Oh my, oh mercy me, I thought to myself, what shall I do now? I just stood there and tried to gather my cool. There’s something about an original painting you can almost smell. Well, I thought, this old geezer is as nutty as a fruitcake. If I’d said anything right then, he probably would have bonked me on the head, so I turned around and kind of chattered, “You sure are a good painter, sir, and I sure would like to see the real one sometime, if they ever find it, that is...” Then I sort of dribbled out of words and blushed.

He was looking at me real funny by now and his wild little eyes got narrow and glittery. That old stiletto was still lying around, and I knew if he’d gone as far as he’d gone to get the picture, he’d go even farther and maybe stick that wicked knife into little chicken me.