The Mystery of Sinister Scarecrow - M. V. Carey [21]
“Well, it sounds better than not having a good job,” said Bob.
“It depends,” said the man, and there was an edge to his voice. “Artists look at things differently sometimes.”
“How differently?”
“Well, some of us think that a guy with Gerry’s talent ought to be doing his own paintings instead of looking after the ones somebody else has already finished,” said the man. “You can tell him I said so. My name’s Edward Anson. Not that your cousin will care. He’s heard all this before, but when I think of that talent going to waste …
well, I just get furious.”
“You really want me to tell him that?” said Bob. “I . . . I don’t know him, you know. I mean we never met. He’s my mother’s second cousin and we’re not a close family. He might not like it. Maybe he won’t like me showing up. Is he … well …
friendly?”
“I’m sorry,” said the man. “I didn’t mean to unload on you. I suppose Gerry’s friendly enough for most ordinary purposes. He does the right thing, you can count on that. Probably he’ll take a day off and take you to Disneyland or Magic Mountain.
That’s not very original. But then he wasn’t always very original. He was a tremendous mimic. He could duplicate the style of just about any painter, did you know that?”
The man paused, then said, “Of course you didn’t know that. You don’t even know Gerry, do you? Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m just a crusty old idealist who believes it’s good for young artists to be hungry instead of secure. Stirs up the creative juices.” The man smiled. “Go and call Gerry, and when you see him, tell him to come and see me sometime.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bob.
He was turning away when the man said, “A cousin. Funny. Never knew that Gerry had any family. He never talked about anybody. He always seemed so self-sufficient and … and buttoned up.”
Bob smiled. “Everybody has some family,” he said.
“Very true,” said the teacher. “We don’t get human beings from a people factory yet, do we? It’s just that sometimes it’s hard to think of people in relation to mothers and fathers. You go and call Gerry and have a good time in Los Angeles. And remember, tell Gerry to come and see me. I’d like to talk to him about his work.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bob. “Thanks very much.”
Bob went down the stairs and out through the big front door. There was a bus coming along and he ran to catch it. He settled next to a window for the long ride out to the coast, and pondered on the interview he had just had. He had learned that Malz had talent, that he was considered self-sufficient and “buttoned up,” and perhaps more devoted to security than to art. These facts added to the picture of Malz but didn’t change it. He was, without doubt, exactly what he appeared to be — a capable curator.
Bob sighed. His investigation had turned up nothing suspicious. He wondered if Jupe or Pete had had better luck. If not, the detectives would have to try a new approach. One way or another, they would identify that scarecrow!
Chapter 11
The Scarecrow Strikes
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you looked me up?” demanded Charles Woolley. “How dare you? I’ve told you everything you need to know about me!”
“We have found it best not to take people too much on faith, Dr. Woolley,” said Jupiter. “We have investigated everyone we can think of who might be connected with the harassment of Letitia Radford.”
It was just dusk. Jupiter, Pete, and Bob had spent the afternoon doing chores and comparing notes. After supper they had ridden out to the Radford estate to talk with their client. They had found Woolley in his laboratory, and he had reacted with rage when Pete mentioned his trip to U.C.L.A.
“I understand how you feel, Dr. Woolley,” said Jupiter now, “but you must agree that it is our business to doubt — and to satisfy our doubts. “So far as we can tell, no one in the Radford household has any motive for this campaign of terror against Letitia Radford, so we must look elsewhere. There is no apparent point to this cruelty, and yet