The Tattooed Potato and Other Clues (5 page)

“Poor mesdames, I know how difficult this will be for you, but we must now speak about that despicable hairdresser. It is the only way we can get your money back, so please try to remember all the details, trivial as they may seem. My apprentice will take notes from which I will later paint a portrait and which you may then have to verify.”

The widows were agreeable. The questioning began.

Garson asked the widow in the brown wig about the size of the horrible hairdresser.

“Not very large,” she replied. “I’d say about five-feet six-inches tall.”

“More like five-ten,” said the short widow in the red wig. “And slim.”

“Francis was five-seven or -eight,” said the blonde-wigged one.

Notebook on her lap, Dickory sighed at the widows’ lack of observation as she wrote down the various heights.

Garson asked for the hairdresser’s full name.

“Francis White.”

“Francis Black.”

“Francis Green.”

Quinn’s cigar looked like an exclamation point at the end of his “I told you so” smirk. Wanting no part in this unprofessional interrogation, he left the arguing group to roam about the studio floor.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Garson said weakly. “We all agree that the hairdresser’s first name is Francis. And I’m sure we will soon agree about his size.”

“It’s difficult,” the blonde apologized. “You see, most of the time I was sitting and Francis was standing behind me. We did most of our talking into the mirror.”

“Aha!” Garson exclaimed. “Then we shall recreate the scene of the crimes.”

The chief of detectives groaned from the library.

Garson rolled the mirror across the floor and placed it before the seated women as first he, then Dickory, stood behind them. The three widows agreed, on seeing them through the mirror, that Dickory came closer in size. Perhaps an inch taller. No, they had not noticed Francis’ shoes.

Dickory wrote “five-seven, more or less.”

“Slim,” Garson said. “One of you said slim.”

“I did,” the redhead replied.

“Slim?” scoffed the bitter brunette, who had lost more of her savings than the others. “That crook was hippy, even pear-shaped.”

“How could you tell he was hippy?” the redhead argued. “My Francis always wore a white coat, like a druggist.”

“And a baby-blue shirt and a lavender bow tie,” added the blonde. “And I’d go along with slim. Small-boned, anyway, with fine, delicate hands.”

“But he gave a brisk shampoo, my Francis did,” the redhead said. “And a perfect manicure.”

Even the brunette had to agree to that.

Garson’s questions were coming more rapidly now: hair, complexion, identifying marks. The widows argued; Dickory wrote; and Chief Quinn went upstairs to use the bathroom.

“Just one more question,” Garson said, interrogation over. “Could you describe Francis in just one word? His most outstanding or most memorable feature.”

“Sympathetic,” said the blonde.

“Gentle,” said the redhead.

It was quite clear how the hairdresser had found out about the widows’ bank accounts. They had probably told him their life stories, and more.

The brunette could not describe Francis in just one word. “If you find that louse, hang him,” she said.

The widows gone, the chief gone, Garson, no longer the charming bohemian artist, tossed his beret and smock on the table, poured himself a drink, and sank into the comfortable chair. Inspector Noserag could not begin the portrait of the horrible hairdresser until the new art supplies were delivered, and the society painter’s portrait of the lawyer was finished and being framed. Bereft of roles to play, Garson’s face once again became a blank mask.

“It’s six o’clock,” Dickory said, prepared to leave. She had completed her first week’s work, but Garson’s only response was a tired wave of his shaking hand. She decided to sing her request:

“ ‘Oranges and lemons,’
say the bells of St. Clements;
‘You owe me five farthings,’
say the bells of St. Martins;
‘When will you pay me?’
say the bells of. . . .”

“Don’t!” Garson leaped from his chair, spilling his drink. “Don’t ever sing that song in this house again.”

“I was just trying to hint about my pay.”

“Oh.” The artist walked to his desk. “I’m so sorry, Dickory, about shouting, and forgetting your money. I have a lot on my mind these days.” This was not the phony Garson, who spoke so softly, nor was it the play-acting Garson. This was the Garson who cared for Isaac Bickerstaffe. This was the Kind One.

“Now, let’s see,” he said, scribbling figures on his desk pad. “Three hours a day for five days is fifteen, plus eight hours today makes twenty-three, times five dollars an hour makes one hundred fifteen.”

The notice had mentioned “good pay,” but this was extravagant for part-time work. Dickory did not complain.

“I’ll have to give you a check.”

Again she did not complain, although she had hoped to buy a book on her way home.

Garson, the mind reader, scanned his bookshelves and took down an expensive volume of full-color reproductions, the paintings of Piero della Francesca. “Here, take this. It’s a bonus for hazardous duty, like getting sandwiches squashed.”

3

Professor D’Arches paraded before the reworked monochromatic compositions and frowned. “Who’s Dick Ory?”

Again she corrected him.

“Do you know what you’ve done here, Dickory?”

“I applied glazes to make dark tones.” Dickory’s glazes consisted of double and triple applications of Magic Markers over her original strokes. She had wanted to buy real watercolors, but none of the stores would cash the large check, and banks were closed on weekends.

“For your information, tones are light, shades are dark. And glazes, yet!” The professor snorted, but the students seemed impressed. Especially George III.

D’Arches snorted again before Harold Silverfish’s collage of pasted strips of foil. “Reynolds Wrap is not a color,” he shouted, then lowered his voice to a patronizing tone. “I assumed any student accepted into this school knew something about color or design, but I was wrong. Why should I expect anyone to appreciate good design today, what with the eye so consistently bombarded by bad examples, atrocious examples of incompetent graphic art, everywhere, at home, in the streets—those awful signs in the streets.” D’Arches paused to control his soaring emotions. “Let’s begin again. Forget design this time; concentrate only on color, one color. Everyone arrange their tones and shades in triangles within a square as Dick Ory has done.”

Basking in the success of having her design selected, Dickory missed most of the professor’s parting sentence. All she heard were the last three words: Roy G. Biv!

“What did he say about Roy G. Biv?” she asked Harold Silverfish, grabbing him by the sleeve as he was about to leave the classroom.

“He said everybody’s got to confine himself to the spectrum. No more silver foil, just stick to Roy G. Biv.”

What in the world did that mean: stick to Roy G. Biv. Dickory had looked up “Biv” in every reference book in the school library but had found nothing. “Who is Roy G. Biv?”

Harold Silverfish shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

“I know,” George III said, shining with enthusiasm. “I’ll tell you about Roy G. Biv, if you tell me how you get such a gloss on your watercolors.”

“How do you know about Roy G. Biv?”

“Oh, we learned about it in the fifth grade.”

Dickory looked into the wide-eyed, freckled face, wondering what outer-space cornfield he came from. “I use Magic Markers,” she admitted quickly.

“Really? That’s amazing. Golly, I wish I had your nerve.”

“Please, George, I’m in a big hurry. Who’s Roy G. Biv?”

“Not who, what. Roy G. Biv’s not a person.” George chuckled good-naturedly. “Roy G. Biv is an acronym; you know, when initials spell out a name. The letters ROYGBIV stand for the colors of the spectrum, in order, like in a rainbow: Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, Violet. Roy G. Biv—it’s an easy way to remember them.”

Troubled with questions, unaskable questions, Dickory hurried to her job. The paints in the second taboret were kept in the order of the spectrum, that’s what Garson had meant when he said Roy G. Biv. Then who was the messy artist who painted so furiously? And why was his canvas hidden under a velvet drape?

Turning the bend into Cobble Lane, Dickory almost bumped into the blind man. He quickly stepped aside.

A truck pulled up to the curb as Dickory was about to enter Number 12. Mallomar peered through a crack in his door and shut it when he saw the size of the men who carried the art supplies up the stairs to the studio.

Garson was not home. Roy G. Biv (or whatever his name was) had not been working. The messy taboret was clean; his easel was undraped and empty; the manikin stood naked of jockey silks. Dickory unpacked the acrylic paints and stored them in the drawers of the new taboret in the order of the spectrum: red, orange, yellow, green, blue....

The doorbell rang.

“I wanna she Garshon,” the derelict slurred. This was a different bum from his Bowery brother who usually slept on the stoop across the street. “Whershz Garshon?” He pushed past Dickory, staggered drunkenly down the hall, and lurched up the stairs. His long gray hair was uncombed (a wig?). His unshaven face was covered (disguised?) with dirt. He wore an eye patch (!) and a torn work shirt tucked into shrunken pants (!!) .

“The new art supplies are here,” Dickory said to the derelict’s back.

Garson stopped in the middle of the stairs, turned and raised his eye patch. “What gave me away?”

“One blue eye. Trim waist.”

“Oh,” was all he said.

Showered and shaved, fresh for the detective game, Garson came down to the studio dressed in his usual costume: starched white shirt with sleeves rolled high on his arms, tailored blue jeans, loafers. On his head was the deerstalker hat. He said nothing about his derelict disguise, and Dickory had learned not to ask questions.

“Okay, Kod, get the notebook. We got no time to lose.” He handed Dickory the bobby’s helmet, slumped down in the wing chair, curled his upper lip tight against his teeth, crossed his legs, uncrossed them, folded his arms, unfolded them, clasped his hands behind his head, then brought them down and joined them around one knee. Garson was still experimenting with his new role.

Dickory read loud from her revised notes. “The Case of the Horrible Hairdresser. Name of perpetrator: Francis aka....”

“What does ‘aka’ mean?” asked the greatest sleuth in the universe, Inspector Noserag.

“ ‘Aka’ means ‘also known as,’ ” Dickory explained.

“Good thinking, Sergeant Kod. Go on.”

“Name of perpetrator: Francis.
aka: Francis White, Francis Black, Francis Green.
Occupation: Hairdresser. Cuts, sets, combs hair.
Gives brisk shampoos and perfect manicures.
Height: five-seven, more or less.
Size: slim / hippy, pear-shaped / small-boned.
Hands: delicate.
Hair color: red / golden-red / strawberry blond.
Hair style: crew cut / very short / just short.
Skin: fair / creamy / smooth.
Identifying marks: small mole on lower right cheek.
Clothes: white druggist’s coat, baby-blue shirt, lavender
bow tie.
Comments: sympathetic / gentle / louse.”

Inspector Noserag’s “hmmm” was followed by several minutes of silence. “Do we possess the correct costumes for attiring our manikin, Sergeant Kod?”

“We have a white doctor’s coat, but no baby-blue shirt or lavender bow tie,” Dickory replied.

“Bah, ridiculous fashion colors. I shall borrow a shirt and bow tie from my good friend Garson and paint in the correct colors—what would they be? Cerulean blue, perhaps, and cobalt violet light. Lucky thing Francis always wore the same clothes, or I’d be painting a portrait of a man with three ties. Hmmm, that’s interesting.”

“What?”

“I think we may have a clue here.”

“Where?”

“Questions, questions. Please, no more questions.” Inspector Noserag parroted his good friend Garson, then lapsed into silence again. “Hmmm. Sergeant Kod, what I need is a pipe. Quick, find me a pipe. A detective cannot detect without a pipe.”

Deciding not to mention that the chief of detectives smoked cigars, Dickory selected a long-stemmed pipe with a curved bowl from the costume collection.

“Excellent. Now, Sergeant, if you would be good enough to dash over to the tobacconist’s, I will encostume our figgers appropri’tly.”

“What did Sherlock Holmes smoke in his pipe?” Dickory asked the knowledgeable owner of the Village Smoke Shop.

“Shag,” he replied. “What are you, some sort of freaky cop in disguise?”

Realizing with horror that she was still wearing the bobby’s helmet, Dickory reached for the nearest pouch of pipe tobacco, tossed the correct change on the counter, and stalked out of the shop in a huff of indignation.

The tobacco smelled like tooth decay, but the inspector didn’t seem to mind. He puffed away and contemplated the costumed manikins. One, in flowered housedress and yellow wig, was seated before the tall mirror. Behind the dummy widow stood the dummy hairdresser, faceless and hairless, wearing a white shirt, a polka-dot bow tie, and a doctor’s coat. Noserag bent the segmented arms at the elbows and twined a strand of the customer’s hair around its wedge-shaped hands.

“Ready with the palette, Sergeant Kod?”

Dickory had been told to arrange the paints for the portrait, not according to Roy G. Biv this time, but in the sequence in which they appeared in the descriptions. “I wasn’t sure about the flesh tones,” she said, handing the glass palette to the painter.

Inspector Noserag puffed on his pipe and puzzled over her choice of colors. “These don’t seem to be in order. Let’s see: white for the jacket; black for the ... oh, yes, black for the mole; chromium oxide green for the.... What’s the green for?”

The colors were in correct order, but in her haste Dickory had included Francis’ three last names.

“You’ve got a lot to learn, kid, a lot to learn,” Noserag muttered in Bogart’s voice.