"VULCAN: Futrelle's Dog With a Smile"

"VULCAN: Futrelle's Dog With a Smile

11/22-11/3/1944

I.

Kelly hated this assignment. Going out to Queens to interview some rich coot about a painting he had purchased from a French merchant. She should be covering the Vulcan arson case! Three houses had burned down in six weeks, and the last time, arrivals on the scene had glimpsed a big man in a Roman legionary costume fleeing the scene. Mocking letters to the police and newspapers had been signed 'Vulcan, the Human Flame-Thrower' and had vaguely hinted at some crusade against corruption in high places. There had been injuries but no deaths. So far.

The only good news was that her editor at THE MESSENGER had allowed her to use his car. The cranky old Chief seldom drove anywhere except from his apartment to the office and back, and he had gasoline to spare. His B sticker entitled him to eight gallons a week. This was consolation. Waiting for Cordwaite to show up, she gazed around the huge gallery that was well lit by high windows almost taking the entire west wall. A narrow skylight let in further illumination. She had never learned much appreciation for fine art. Solid comfortable chairs and a side table displaying an assortment of liquor bottles completed the decor. These were pleasant looking oil paintings to her untrained eye but nothing special. Sailing ships in storms, rearing horses, rather chubby women who wore only wispy bits of cloth around their hips, nothing to hold her interest.

At twenty-four, Kelly O'Connor was tall and slender rather than voluptuous. She was wearing her favorite dark green skirt and jacket, with a white silk blouse and a single strand of pearls. The green compliment her flaming red hair and matched her eyes. Her hat was a mere cloche perched precariously on the side of her head. Hanging on a brass chain from her left shoulder was a soft leather handbag. She looked great but took it for granted and wore minimal make-up even when, as now, she had to make a good impression.

Before leaving the office, she had dug through some of the reference books which lined the walls of the day room. It hadn't helped. She didn't recognize any of these paintings and the signatures seemed mere scribbles to her. Kelly took out her notebook and pencil and began to write a description of the gallery in her modified shorthand. But even as she wrote, her thoughts strayed to wondering about this Vulcan firebug.

"Ah, this charming young lady must be Kelly O'Connor!" sang out a high tenor voice. Harvey Cordwaite was the same height as Kelly's five feet seven, but so dumpy and round-bellied that he seemed shorter. He was wearing a flamboyant deep maroon dressing gown over a white shirt and black trousers, with a loosely knotted red polka dot bow tie. A red beret and a cigarette in a long ivory holder added to the colorful first impression. Kelly disliked him on sight.

"That's me," she answered with her most disarming smile. "Humble reporter for New York's newest paper, THE MESSENGER. The door was wide open, so I came in. I didn't see any butler."

"Oh, I keep no servants on the grounds," Cordwaite said. "I'm self-made. I can cook my own meals and drive by myself. I do have a housekeeper and groundsman who come in twice a week but that's all." He added with a bit too much glee, "We're QUITE alone, Kelly."

"Really. Heh. Well, the art world has completely lost its marbles over your purchase of a painting by Jean-Claude Futrelle, let's see, 'Chien Souriant.'"

"In English, 'the Smiling Dog.' Have a good look, my dear." Cordwaite took her arm and gently guided her to where an oil painting three feet to each side hung at eye level.

Kelly made herself show some patience and studied the piece of art. It showed a man and a woman sitting next to each other on a wooden bench under a tree. They were wearing Medieval clothing, the man in hose and a doublet and the woman in a long white gown and a conical hat with a ribbon dangling from its point. They were holding hands and staring into each others' eyes with a warmth that reminded her of a few of her own dates.

But it was the dog that amused her. In the foreground, sitting with its head turned toward the viewer, it looked like a wiry-haired terrier to her. A faint but unmistakable smile lifted the corners of its mouth in a very human expression.
"Oh, that IS clever," she said finally. "Pooch there is glad they're going to smooch."

"The first kiss is always so exciting, don't you think?"

Kelly shifted slightly away and held up her notebook to make it clear she was all business. "I didn't know these high class painters had a sense of humor."

"Futrelle was quite young when he did this," Cordwaite explained. "It's one of his earliest pieces. In fact, until a few years ago it had been thought to have been lost."

"Hmmm. Mr Cordwaite, critics have been losing their minds over this painting, from what I can gather. And there's quite a scandal how cheaply you bought this for. Twenty thousand doesn't sound like chicken feed to me, but I guess something from Futrelle would normally go for three times as much."

"Ah," said the little man, clapping his hands in glee. "That was my stroke of luck. The owner is just starting out as a broker. He was eager to make a sale and didn't have the patience to hold out for more. My good fortune, of course."

Kelly tapped her pencil's eraser end against flawless white teeth. "I can see a Sunday feature page about your collection. How would you feel about a photographer coming out here and doing some shots?"

"Would you be returning as well, my dear?"

Kelly repressed a sigh. She didn't want to lead the millionaire on, but at the same time, getting her name on a full-page Sunday story would mean a juicy bonus. "Of course," she said but stressed, "MR Cordwaite. I'd like you to approve the text before we leave, to make sure I got all the names and descriptions right."

"Fine, fine." He was heading for the side table. "I have some excellent Scotch here, my dear. Twelve years old, from before the war. Perhaps a toast to good old Futrelle and his charming dog?"

"No thanks, I'm just a working girl and I have to get back to the office before five. Thanks for your courtesy. I'll ask my editor to set up a photography session." Kelly tucked her notebook and pencil away and saw how crestfallen the old man was. She added, "Perhaps some other time."

"Ah, such is life." Cordwaite had prepared a generous tumbler for himself. "I'll see you to the door."

"You know, there IS something else," Kelly said. "That house that burned down in the next city over, it belonged to an art dealer named Langston. Do you know him?"

"Oh yes, not a bad fellow at all. Most of his collection was lost, sad to say. Only a few bits of the frames were recovered. Quite irreplaceable."

Kelly let the art lover escort her down a hall to where the front door was still open. On a paved turnaround, a gleaming new Nash stood next to her Chief's old Ford. "It's supposed to have been one of the Vulcan arson jobs. What do you think that's all about?"

"Bah. Some lunatic with a peculiar quirk in his mental make-up," Cordwaite dismissed the thought. "These arsonists love fire for its own sake. I wouldn't look for any deeper meaning."

Turning to shake his hand as warmly as she could, Kelly added, "Still, it wouldn't hurt to be careful, sir. Whoever he is, Vulcan is at large."

Cordwaite laughed and released her hand with a gentle squeeze. "Thank you for your concern. I assure you that I will be sleeping in the gallery tonight like a watchdog."

( the rest of the story )