The Four Johns by Ellery Queen

the front door, ancient chipped white enamel letters proclaimed:
    JOHN VIVIANO , ARTISAN
    ENTER
    Mervyn stepped into a foyer that startled him. There was black carpeting on the floor and the walls were covered with black velvet. To the left stood a spraddle-legged table painted the greenish white-blue of verdigris, supporting an antique lamp with a celadon base and a green Tiffany-glass shade.
    If the décor startled him, what hung on the opposite wall almost toppled him. It was a huge photograph in an ugly gun-metal frame of a standing young woman in a décolleté Empire-like gown. She had one knee resting on a Louis XIV chair and both hands lightly touching the chair’s top. And she was staring right at Mervyn with a Mona Lisa smile, and she was Mary Hazelwood.
    The confrontation was so unexpected that Mervyn’s heart stopped for a moment. And into his mind flashed the nightmarish image of that twisted cold figure in pale blue making an obscene splash in dark water.… Mervyn winced and turned hastily from the photograph.
    The buzzer on the inner door was answered by a dark, skinny young man in a gray smock. He was almost totally bald, short and bandy-legged, with tobacco-fouled fingers. A pair of extraordinarily large black eyes looked Mervyn up and down.
    â€œYes?” the young man said.
    â€œI’d like to speak to Mr. Viviano.”
    â€œI’m Viviano. Frank Viviano.”
    â€œOh, I wanted John Viviano.”
    â€œHe’s not here right now.”
    There was the faintest overtone in the man’s voice—mockery, contempt, condescension? “Will he be gone long?” Mervyn asked.
    Frank Viviano shrugged. “Maybe a half hour.”
    â€œI’ll wait if I may.” Mervyn jerked his head toward the photograph. “That’s Mary Hazelwood, isn’t it?”
    â€œSearch me. I don’t keep track of them.”
    Frank Viviano stepped back and Mervyn preceded him into a large studio that was in striking and perhaps purposeful contrast to the arty foyer. The walls were unpainted plasterboard. The room was a clutter of lights, reflectors, props, cameras and photographic accessories.
    â€œFind a seat,” said Frank Viviano indifferently. He went to a workbench, where he seemed to be repairing a large view camera.
    Mervyn strolled about the studio. He looked in at the cameras—Linhof, Leica, Nikon, Mamiyaflex and two Rolleiflexes. But after a while he wandered over to the workbench. Casting about for a conversational opening, he said, “Is this a quiet day for you?”
    Frank Viviano nodded. “More or less. It comes in spurts. We don’t shoot much around here, just special stuff.”
    â€œI thought John designed clothes.”
    â€œHe’ll do anything for a buck.” Frank Viviano spread glue along a joint, tightened a clamp. “Designing is his downtown job. This is uptown, where life is real. Are you from some agency? Or independent?”
    Mervyn was puzzled. “I don’t get you.”
    â€œAren’t you a model?”
    â€œHell, no.”
    Frank grunted. Mervyn tried another tack. “John said he’d meet me last Friday night and he never showed up. What was he doing?”
    Viviano shook his bald head. “Might as well try to chase down a seagull as John.”
    â€œYou’re his brother?”
    â€œYeah. Couple of North Beach paisans.” He raised the lens board and tested the shutter. “I’ve about had it. I’m joining the Peace Corps. Get away, see something new for a change.”
    â€œI’m about ready myself,” Mervyn said.
    The brother looked up. “What do you do? You got any skills?”
    â€œI read and write,” Mervyn answered. “I’m pretty good at tennis. In high school I played the violin.”
    â€œI don’t think you’ll make it.”
    â€œMake what?”
    â€œThe Peace Corps.”
    â€œIt’s true I’m not the