these arrangements are among painter, gallery, and collector. Do you really want to involve him?”
Now that was odd. There was a lot of subtext Julie wasn’t getting. She had a hunch what he meant was that he did not want to involve her husband. “Mr. Rubinoff, how did you know how to reach me?”
“Mr. Abel reached you, didn’t he?”
“Then why don’t you have Mr. Abel call me? If he wishes to have the painting back, let’s do it that way. Okay?”
“Mrs. Hayes, I deal with galleries. I rarely talk with painters. I would advise you to do the same.”
“That’s fine, but I’ll wait for Mr. Abel’s call just the same.”
“Let me give you my number meanwhile, in case you should change your mind.”
Julie wrote down the number and, hanging up, sat and thought about the call. Let him have it! Get it back from Romano and give it to him. Call Romano now. And feel like a fool: You see, Mr. Romano, I thought I’d bought it, but…Five hundred dollars. Six hundred. And if Mr. Rubinoff dealt only with galleries, why wasn’t it Maude Sloan who called her?
She went back to the paint chart on the mantel: for the right mix she was going to need chalk white and a handful of dust. If he had gotten her phone number or the name under which it was listed from Ralph Abel, why not say so directly? He’d been direct enough in saying she had no right to the painting. She had the distinct feeling that he was not in touch with Abel at all. And if that were the case, how did he know to call Mrs. Geoffrey Hayes? She decided to pay Maude Sloan a visit.
EIGHTEEN
J ULIE RANG THE BELL and tried the gallery door at the same time. It wasn’t locked. Maude Sloan was at her desk surrounded by empty walls. A week ago the scene had been a lot different.
“Yes?” Mrs. Sloan watched her approach with a look of trying to remember where she had seen her before.
“I came to the Ralph Abel opening,” Julie said.
“Of course.” She stopped sorting a stack of mail, mostly bills.
“You introduced me to a Mr. Rubinoff.”
“Yes—that unfortunate confusion. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”
Which had to mean that Rubinoff had bypassed Mrs. Sloan, ignoring his own advice.
“Mrs. Geoffrey Hayes,” Julie said. It sounded rather more dramatic than she had intended. But it scored.
Mrs. Sloan said, “I must apologize for the confusion. It was unfortunate timing—a matter of a moment or two. Won’t you sit down?”
Julie said, “Mrs. Sloan, I have the painting, Scarlet Night.”
There was a slow, downward turn to that once handsome face, and a shift away from Julie of the gray-green eyes. As though she had been dealt a blow. “Ralph wanted you to have it…Or did you buy it from Rubinoff?” The latter possibility seemed to lift her spirits.
Julie sat in the chair alongside the desk. “Ralph called me the morning after the opening and said I could have Scarlet Night, that the other buyer had changed his mind.”
“The morning after the show, yes. The gallery was closed. It seems a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry the show went the way it did,” Julie said, wanting to say something sympathetic.
“Are you?”
Julie decided she had better stick to her reason for coming. “You mean Mr. Rubinoff hadn’t changed his mind at all.”
“Not at that point. Today it might be different.”
“Why? If you don’t mind telling me.”
“From what I know of Mr. Rubinoff, I’d say he often represents people who speculate in painting much as some men invest in the market—looking for growth stock.”
“I get it. Ralph Abel’s gone out of business.”
“I don’t know whether he has or not, but he’s going to have trouble finding another gallery. I called Mr. Rubinoff when I discovered the paintings were gone. I supposed Ralph might deliver Scarlet Night to him.”
“Mr. Rubinoff called me this morning and said I had no right to keep the painting. He gave me a high-minded lecture of ethics and
Now that was odd. There was a lot of subtext Julie wasn’t getting. She had a hunch what he meant was that he did not want to involve her husband. “Mr. Rubinoff, how did you know how to reach me?”
“Mr. Abel reached you, didn’t he?”
“Then why don’t you have Mr. Abel call me? If he wishes to have the painting back, let’s do it that way. Okay?”
“Mrs. Hayes, I deal with galleries. I rarely talk with painters. I would advise you to do the same.”
“That’s fine, but I’ll wait for Mr. Abel’s call just the same.”
“Let me give you my number meanwhile, in case you should change your mind.”
Julie wrote down the number and, hanging up, sat and thought about the call. Let him have it! Get it back from Romano and give it to him. Call Romano now. And feel like a fool: You see, Mr. Romano, I thought I’d bought it, but…Five hundred dollars. Six hundred. And if Mr. Rubinoff dealt only with galleries, why wasn’t it Maude Sloan who called her?
She went back to the paint chart on the mantel: for the right mix she was going to need chalk white and a handful of dust. If he had gotten her phone number or the name under which it was listed from Ralph Abel, why not say so directly? He’d been direct enough in saying she had no right to the painting. She had the distinct feeling that he was not in touch with Abel at all. And if that were the case, how did he know to call Mrs. Geoffrey Hayes? She decided to pay Maude Sloan a visit.
EIGHTEEN
J ULIE RANG THE BELL and tried the gallery door at the same time. It wasn’t locked. Maude Sloan was at her desk surrounded by empty walls. A week ago the scene had been a lot different.
“Yes?” Mrs. Sloan watched her approach with a look of trying to remember where she had seen her before.
“I came to the Ralph Abel opening,” Julie said.
“Of course.” She stopped sorting a stack of mail, mostly bills.
“You introduced me to a Mr. Rubinoff.”
“Yes—that unfortunate confusion. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”
Which had to mean that Rubinoff had bypassed Mrs. Sloan, ignoring his own advice.
“Mrs. Geoffrey Hayes,” Julie said. It sounded rather more dramatic than she had intended. But it scored.
Mrs. Sloan said, “I must apologize for the confusion. It was unfortunate timing—a matter of a moment or two. Won’t you sit down?”
Julie said, “Mrs. Sloan, I have the painting, Scarlet Night.”
There was a slow, downward turn to that once handsome face, and a shift away from Julie of the gray-green eyes. As though she had been dealt a blow. “Ralph wanted you to have it…Or did you buy it from Rubinoff?” The latter possibility seemed to lift her spirits.
Julie sat in the chair alongside the desk. “Ralph called me the morning after the opening and said I could have Scarlet Night, that the other buyer had changed his mind.”
“The morning after the show, yes. The gallery was closed. It seems a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry the show went the way it did,” Julie said, wanting to say something sympathetic.
“Are you?”
Julie decided she had better stick to her reason for coming. “You mean Mr. Rubinoff hadn’t changed his mind at all.”
“Not at that point. Today it might be different.”
“Why? If you don’t mind telling me.”
“From what I know of Mr. Rubinoff, I’d say he often represents people who speculate in painting much as some men invest in the market—looking for growth stock.”
“I get it. Ralph Abel’s gone out of business.”
“I don’t know whether he has or not, but he’s going to have trouble finding another gallery. I called Mr. Rubinoff when I discovered the paintings were gone. I supposed Ralph might deliver Scarlet Night to him.”
“Mr. Rubinoff called me this morning and said I had no right to keep the painting. He gave me a high-minded lecture of ethics and
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