Gestapo.”
Frank pocketed the badge. “What do you mean?”
“A spy for Theodore and his crowd,” the man said. “Are they still looking for some way to close us down?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then what’s your connection with him?”
“He owns his gallery with Karen Devereaux.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And Karen’s sister, Angelica, was murdered a few days ago.”
“Ah, so you’re investigating her death?”
“Yes. Could I ask you your name?”
“It’s Leland Cartier,” the man said. “I own the Knife Point.” He looked at Frank closely. “Of course, that still doesn’t explain why Theodore sent you over here.” He laughed quietly. “I mean, does he think I killed his partner’s sister in order to get even?”
“Get even for what, Mr. Cartier?”
“For the way he’s been deriding everything we do here,” Cartier said. “It’s a campaign to destroy us. He hates what we do. He believes that art should be gentle. He’s even written that somewhere, that art should be ‘life-affirming.’” He smiled sarcastically. “An odd attitude, don’t you think, for an alcoholic?”
Frank took out his picture of Angelica. “Have you ever seen her?”
Cartier looked at the picture. “Is this Karen Devereaux’s sister?”
“Yes.”
Cartier continued to gaze at the photograph. “Yes, I’ve seen her,” he said slowly. “But I had no idea who she was.”
“Did you know that she was dead?”
Cartier handed the picture back to Frank. “No, I didn’t.”
“This same photograph was in the paper only a few days ago,” Frank told him.
“I don’t read the papers,” Cartier said. “I don’t find anything in them to be of use to me. I suppose you find that a strange attitude.”
“A little.”
“Life is short,” Cartier said. “That’s the only real law of life, that it very quickly comes to an end. Since that is so, it requires certain choices. One of them is to distinguish the things you can do something about from the things you can’t.” He shrugged. “The things in the paper are beyond my effort. I can’t do anything about them, so I don’t bother to learn about them.” He smiled coolly. “It makes a certain amount of sense, don’t you think?”
Frank took out his notebook. “You said that Angelica had been in the gallery, that you’d seen her here?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t know who she was?”
“That’s right.”
Frank wrote it down. “But you do recognize her from the photograph?”
“It took me a moment but, yes, I recognize her.”
“Why did it take you a while?”
“Because she was dressed quite differently when she came in here.”
“How was she dressed?”
Cartier thought about it for a moment. “Some sort of black outfit,” he said. “I don’t notice clothing that much, but I notice the mood it gives off.”
“Mood?”
“Yes,” Cartier said, “and Angelica’s clothing gave off a sort of blackness. Of course, that’s not unusual for the people who come in here. They’re sometimes looking for anything but a work of art. They see the noose on the door, and something about it attracts them.”
“Was Angelica looking for art?” Frank asked.
“I don’t know what anyone’s looking for, Mr. Clemons,” Cartier said. “Do you?”
“When was she here?”
“About three months ago, I’d say,” Cartier told him. “But come, you seem interested in some of the works we have. Let’s walk through the gallery while we talk.” He turned and headed into the adjoining room. He walked to the center of it, then stopped and looked back at Frank. “What do you think?” he asked.
Frank looked around the room. It was even more dimly lit than the first, and the mood it gave off was more sinister. A pair of silver handcuffs hung from a gold tack, and a black whip had been coiled up tightly and then nailed to the wall with a silver stake.
“Did Angelica come back here?” he asked.
“Yes,” Cartier said. “As I recall, she lingered in this particular room. This one, and the last one, in the very back. Do you want to see it?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me.”
The paintings in the back room of the Knife Point seemed to drip, rather than hang, from the walls. The bright red and yellow canvases looked like gashes in the plain white plaster, their three-dimensional insides spilling out onto the floor. A kind of thick, acrid smoke seemed to fill the room, and as Frank moved through it, it was as if he could feel his own fires burning within him.
“I think she liked this room best,” Cartier said.
Frank turned toward him. “Why?”
“Perhaps because it seems so raw,” Cartier said. “So primitive.”
“And Angelica seemed that way?”
“She had a certain look,” Cartier said. “Like a creature stalking something.” He looked at Frank. “That’s the irony now, isn’t it? I mean, apparently she was the one being stalked.”
“Was she alone?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“What did she do while she was here?”
“Not what you’d expect.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she really didn’t look at paintings,” Cartier said. “It was like they were only there to serve as her own personal background.”
“Background for what?”
“I don’t know, whatever it was that she was trying to be.”
“Which was?”
Cartier smiled helplessly. “I’m afraid I can’t read minds, Mr. Clemons.”
“Well, if she didn’t look at the paintings, what did she do?”
“She would slink about the gallery,” Cartier said.
“Slink?”
“Yes.”
Frank wrote it down. “Did she act as if she were trying to pick someone up?”
“Not exactly,” Cartier said. “It was more like she wanted to be seen. Only seen. Not touched, or even approached, for that matter.”
“Did anyone ever try to approach her?”
“A few brave souls,” Cartier said, “but she gave them a look, and they left her alone.”
“How many times was she here?” Frank asked.
“Three or four,” Cartier said.
“And she was always alone?”
“Yes.”
“And she never talked to anyone?”
