101 The Picture of Guilt Read online

  "Fm afraid so," Pamela replied, her voice quivering. "It's Jules. He was in an accident."

  "Jules? But I spoke to him earlier. He was planning to see me tonight. Was it serious? Where is he?" In the tense silence that followed. Professor Mathieson's face blanched. "What is it? Surely you don't mean . . ."

  Gently, Nancy explained what had happened. Professor Mathieson stared at her, unbelieving, before sinking onto the couch. Pamela sat down next to her and took her hand.

  "I can't . . ." Professor Mathieson began, then stopped to clear her throat. "You never expect something like this to happen to someone you know. Now that I think of it, I did hear sirens, but I didn't think anything about it. I was in the kitchen, cleaning up. I didn't even go to the window to see . . ." She fell silent, burying her face in her hands.

  Nancy waited a few moments before asking, "Do you think he was on his way here?"

  Professor Mathieson raised her head and nodded. "I know he was. We get together three or four times a week to go over what he's doing and where we should go next. We were scheduled to meet tomorrow afternoon. But tonight he called and asked if he could come right over. He said he had made an amazing discovery. I asked him what, of course, but he said he wanted to explain it to me in person. I wonder what it was," she added in a faraway voice. "I suppose now I'll never know. Poor Jules!''

  Nancy met George's eyes. She could tell that her friend shared her thoughts. Had the evidence for Jules's amazing discovery been in his briefcase? And had someone stolen it and pushed Jules under the truck to keep him from revealing his discovery?

  "What specifically was Jules working on?" Nancy asked.

  "He was helping me with my book about Josephine Solo," Professor Mathieson replied. "He was compiling an account of her day-to-day activities during the last year of her life. It's tedious work, but details are essential for a project like mine. And we're under very heavy deadline pressure."

  She turned to Pamela and asked, "Do you think David would be willing to take over for Jules? I know he felt bad when I gave the position to Jules instead of him."

  "Oh, he got over that a long time ago," Pamela replied. ''And Fm sure he'd be thrilled at the chance to work more closely with you. Professor. That reminds me, I've got to get home. David must be wondering what happened to me."

  "Ask him to come by and see me tomorrow," Professor Mathieson said. "I know it sounds heartless of me, but I can't let my project lose momentum, even in the face of a tragedy."

  The professor walked Pamela to the door. Nancy and George waited in the living room. When she returned, Nancy said, "Professor Mathieson, I should tell you that I've done a lot of detective work. And it seems to me that there may be more to this accident than meets the eye."

  Professor Mathieson returned slowly to the sofa. "Of course," she said. "Bob Morland did say something to me about your talent as a detective. But are you sure you're not imagining a mystery where none exists? Traffic accidents happen every day."

  "Maybe I am," Nancy admitted. "But there are some details about what happened to Jules that have aroused my suspicions." She explained about the missing briefcase, then told of the woman who thou^t someone had knocked Jules into the street.

  Professor Mathieson stared at her. "You're suggesting that Jules was murdered!"

  Nancy hesitatedr "Not necessarily," she said.

  "It could have been an ordinary mugging that went wrong."

  "It's a pretty weird coincidence, though," George pointed out. "Jules is hurrying over here with what he calls an amazing discovery, and a thief just happens to steal his briefcase?"

  Professor Mathieson nodded slowly. "I see your point."

  "What was this discovery of his? Do you know?" Nancy asked.

  "Not at all," Professor Mathieson replied. "He didn't give me any hint. All he said was that he couldn't expect me to believe it unless I had the evidence right in front of me."

  "Then he did have the evidence in that briefcase!" George exclaimed.

  Professor Mathieson reacted with surprise. "Why, yes, I suppose he must have. Oh, dear—r it's beginning to look as if there may be something to your suspicions, after all."

  "You said eariier that Jules and David were rivals," Nancy said. "Is there any—"

  "No, no!" Professor Mathieson said, cutting her oflF. "Rivals is too strong a word. They were both candidates for the same position, that's all. David is a fine student, very well qualified, but in the end I decided that Jules's native command of French made him the better choice for the job."

  "But I thought you just taught American exchange students," Nancy commented.

  "I teach one class outside of the exchange program, and that's how I got to know Jules."

  "'Was David upset and angry about not being chosen for the job?" George asked.

  "Upset, naturally," the professor replied. "But more disappointed than angry."

  Nancy thought that as of the next day David would have the research post he so badly wanted. Did he want it badly enough to steal important documents from his rival? That seemed pretty farfetched. Anyway, how could he have known that Jules was on his way to see Professor Mathieson with important documents in his briefcase?

  "You said that Jules called to ask if he could come by," Nancy said to Professor Mathieson. "When was that? Was anyone here at the time?"

  The professor frowned as she concentrated. "Fm sorry. All I can tell you is that it was near the end of the party," she said. "There were a number of people still here, but I have no idea who."

  "Professor Mathieson," George asked. "Did you tell anybody that Jules was on his way here? Also, why wasn't he at the party? Didn't you invite him?"

  "Of course. And, please, call me Ellen." She paused to collect her thoughts. "Jules came to the first of our open houses, back in September, but I think he felt a bit out of place. Everyone but he was American. As for mentioning that he was coming by this evening, I don't recall doing so. I might have, but I doubt it."

  This seemed to be a blind alley. Nancy decided to try a diflferent route. "Ellen, it sounds as if you kept close tabs on Jules's work. Can you remember what, specij&cally, he was working on the past few days?"

  "Yes, of course," Ellen replied. "As I said earlier, he was researching Josephine's last days, finding out who she met, where she went, what she did. It wasn't an easy job. I was a close friend of Josephine, you know, perhaps her closest friend in recent years, but even with me she could be almost pathologically secretive."

  She paused, then added, "Life is full of strange ironies, isn't it? That Jules should spend his last days investigating Josephine's last days, then die under the wheels of a truck."

  Nancy was puzzled. "It is sad," she said, "but why do you call it ironic?"

  "Didn't you know?" Professor Mathieson asked. "Josephine Solo died in a traffic accident last spring. She was killed instantly when she fell in front of a truck only a few blocks from here."

  Chapter Three

  Nancy gasped slightly at Ellen's revelation. She noticed Greorge, who was staring at Ellen in shock.

  "Josephine Solo was killed in exactly the same way as Jules?" George exclaimed. "What a coincidence!''

  "Yes/' Ellen said slowly. "I suppose it is."

  "You sound doubtful," Nancy remarked. "Why? Was there something suspicious about her death?"

  The professor studied her clasped hands. "Not really," she replied in a far-off voice. "Accidents do happen every day. It's just—well, Jo's death has always puzzled me. She was usually such a careful person, the kind who checks both ways before crossing the street, even if she has the ri^t of way. All I can think is that she had something on her mind, something that distracted her at the critical moment. I was hoping that Jules's research would help uncover what it might have been."

  "I know Josephine Solo was very well known as an artist," Nancy said. "Was she rich, too?"

  Ellen laughed. "She lived very comfortably from the sales of her paintings, but she was no millionair
e. If she had left some completed canvases, they would be worth quite a lot now. But Jo's productivity must have dropped off a lot. After her death, we found only one finished painting in her studio."

  "Really? Did that surprise you?" asked George.

  Ellen rolled her eyes. "To say the least! You see, Jo left her entire estate to me. We had an understanding that I would sell a few of the canvases and use the money to endow a Josephine Solo room to house the others in my university's art museum back in the States."

  She glanced at the painting over the mantel for a moment, then added, "It's such a shame that it didn't work out that way. But Jo must have expected to have many more productive years. How could she know she would die relatively young? She was only in her fifties, you know."

  Nancy said, "Could somebody have stolen paintings from her studio after she died?"

  "What an astonishing idea," Ellen exclaimed. "I wonder—but, no, it's not possible. I flew over the same day that I heard the news, and the police turned over her keys to me after her lawyer explained that I was her executor. And to be honest, it was pretty clear from her studio that she hadn't been working in several months.

  "You poor dears," Ellen added, glancing at her watch, then getting to her feet. "Your jet lag will be catching up with you soon. Luckily, you don't have far to go before you sleep.''

  As Nancy stood up, she realized how tired she was. But she found a last reserve of energy. "I'd like to know more about Solo's last months," she said. "Can we talk tomorrow morning?"

  Ellen shook her head. "I'm afraid not. I have a class tomorrow at ten. But if you like, I'll let you check over some of Jo's papers. French universities are notoriously short on space, so I'm using the back bedroom as an office. Can you be here by nine or nine-fifteen?"

  "We'll be here," Nancy replied, then struggled to hold back a powerful yawn. Ellen walked the girls to the door and let them out. After saying good night to Ellen, Nancy and George went downstairs to their apartment.

  In the living room Carson was seated near the fireplace with a stack of papers on his lap. He greeted them when they came in and took off his reading glasses. "Well, have you two been having fun, taking in all the sights?" he asked.

  "Not exactly," Nancy replied. She recounted the evening's events, including the party at Ellen Mathieson's, Jules's death, and their discussion afterward with Ellen.

  As she spoke, Carson nibbled thoughtfully on an earpiece of his reading glasses. When she finished, he asked, "I take it you sense a mystery in all this?"

  "More than one," Nancy replied eagerly. "The most obvious is the missing briefcase. Who took it, and why? And what about the fact that Jules and Solo died in such similar ways? Could they both have been murdered, and by the same person?"

  Carson raised one eyebrow questioningly. "What makes you think that?" he asked.

  "It's just too much of a coincidence," Nancy replied. "According to Professor Mathieson, Solo was a very careful person, not the kind who would wander out in front of a truck. And there's at least one witness who says that somebody knocked Jules into the street."

  "A vanished witness," Carson pointed out. "Not very helpful."

  "True," Nancy admitted. "But we do know that Jules was doing research on Solo's last months. It's a reasonable hypothesis that his death is somehow related to something he discovered. What if he found evidence that pointed to her killer? Or what if Solo's killer thought that Jules had uncovered such evidence?"

  "That's quite a string of ifs," Carson replied.

  "But what if we get the evidence to prove we're right?'' asked George.

  "That's a different matter," Carson said. "But let me just mention that, if you are right, and if this hypothetical killer finds out that you're checking into the deaths of Solo and Jules, you giris could be in danger, too. I know you both too well to suggest that you drop the investigation, but please be careful."

  "We will, Dad," Nancy said, but another big yawn muffled her words.

  "Okay, that's it," Carson said with a laugh. "Off to bed, you two! The case will have to wait until tomorrow morning."

  Promptly at nine the next morning, Nancy and George rang Ellen's bell. She opened the door at once. This morning, she was wearing a dark blue dress with a wide, bright red belt that matched her shoes. Her face was tired and drawn.

  "Come in, girls," she said. "I just made a fresh pot of coffee, if you'd like some. I didn't get much sleep last night, thinking about poor Jules. Do you really believe that the work he was doing for me led to his death?"

  The most honest answer would have been "Yes," but Nancy diplomatically said, "I think we have to check out that possibility."

  Ellen nodded. "Yes, I can understand that.

  Now, you said you were interested in Jo's last few months, right?''

  "That's right," Nancy said.

  "Very well," Ellen said with a grave smile. She led them into the living room and pointed to a small desk in one comer. "What I've done is to pull out photocopies of Jo's datebook and address book for last year and the first two months of this year. There's also a file of letters Jo received during that period."

  "Terrific," George said.

  "I'd rather these materials didn't leave the apartment," Ellen continued. "Would you mind using them here? When you're done, just pull the door shut behind you. It locks automatically."

  "This is really helpful of you," Nancy said. "I hope we're not putting you to all this trouble for nothing."

  "Frankly, I hope you are," Ellen replied. "I would find it almost a comfort to be able to think that the deaths of my old friend and my research assistant were simply cruel accidents. The alternative is much more terrifying. Oops—I'd better run or I'll be late for class."

  She grabbed a plastic portfolio from the desk and hurried out the door.

  As the door closed, Nancy looked over at George. "Why don't you start reading through that file of letters?" she asked. "I want to make a list of people Solo was in touch with during those last months. Then we'll see if we can manage to talk to any of them."

  "Sure, Nan," George said. She took the thick file over to the sofa and got to work on it.

  Nancy found a pad and pen and opened Solo's appointment book. After the first page, she realized it was going to be hard work. Like a lot of people. Solo had simply jotted enough information in her datebook to remind her of her engagements. An entry such as kr 4 dm must have meant something to her, but for someone else to decipher would be diflBicult, if not impossible.

  As a first step Nancy copied all the entries onto her pad, in a long column. Then she studied the result. Most of the entries were one or two letters, followed usually by a number, and sometimes by more letters. Nancy chewed on the end of her ballpoint pen and stared into space.

  What was the most important information to remember about an appointment? Obviously, who, when, and where, in more or less that order. In that case the numbers probably stood for the time Solo was to meet somebody, and the first set of letters was probably the person's initials. The other letters? An abbreviation for the name of the place they had agreed to meet?

  To test this theory, she turned to the address book. It was almost impossible to read, filled with names, scratched out and overwritten addresses and telephone numbers, and cryptic notes. Still, in half an hour of cross checking, she managed to track down names that fit most of the initials. But who on earth was BW? Solo had met him or her a lot during the last few months of her life, but there was no trace of anyone with those initials in the address book.

  The places, if that really was what they were, turned out to be even harder. Then Nancy had a flash of inspiration. Solo was a painter. What would be more natural than for her to meet people at a museum? Nancy scanned the list again, while trying to recall the names of the important museums of Paris. LOU was obviously the Louvre, which meant that ORS was probably the Orsay Museum, the second most important museum in Paris. But what could DM stand for?

  In a nearby bookcase, Nanc
y found a guidebook to Paris and scanned the list of museums for one that started with D. There didn't seem to be any. She returned to Solo's address book. No one on the M page had a first name that began with D, With a feeling of futility, Nancy turned to the D page and began to scan it.

  Suddenly she snapped her fingers. There it was, halfway down the page: Deux Magots, the famous Left Bank cafe, a favorite meeting place of artists, writers, and intellectuals since the early twentieth century. Mystery solved.

  "Nancy!'' George suddenly said. "Look what I just found."

  She passed over a letter written on the stationery of an art gallery on the Left Bank. Nancy read:

  My dear Jo—

  After so many years of such close association, it gives me much pain to leam that you are saying lies about me and the way I lead my business. This must not continue. If you will not learn to hold your tongue, you will oblige me to take measures— strong measures—to ensure that you slander no one ever again.

  Chapter Four

  NANCY READ thfough the note George had found once more, this time out loud. Then she met her friend's gaze.

  "That's pretty obviously meant as a threat," she said. "What it amounts to is, *Shut your mouth, or I'll shut it for good.'"

  "And it's dated late February, not long before Solo was killed," George pointed out.

  The note was signed Jean-Luc, in spidery handwriting. At the top of the page, under the name and address of the gallery, in small type was printed Jean-Luc Censier, Director. "I think Mr. Censier just moved to the top of our hst of people to talk to." Nancy said. "Fve got the names and addresses of four or five others who were in frequent touch with Solo before her death, too. After we talk to Censier, we should see how many of them we can track down.*'

  "Do you think we're dressed well enough to go interviewing people?" George asked, indicating her turquoise turtleneck and black jeans.

  Nancy, who was also wearing black jeans with an off-white Irish sweater, laughed. "Half the people I've seen on the street are wearing jeans," she said. "Jeans and leather jackets. Good thing 1 we brought ours—they're just right for fall weather here."