The Philosophical Strangler(35)

“Luigi Carnale, Cardinal Fornacaese,” growled Greyboar. “If ever pure corruption took human form, it’s him.”

Benvenuti gave the portrait a clinical study. “Dare say you’re right,” he mused. “I do know it’s taken all of my skill—to keep the image accurate, on the one hand, while not portraying the foulness which oozes from the man’s every pore.”

“You’ve met him, then?” grunted Greyboar.

“Oh, yes. Spent several hours in his company, while he sat. Fortunately, I was able to keep him quiet. Told him I needed absolute stillness to catch his image properly.”

A small commotion caused us to turn. Jenny and Angela had come into the room, with the Cat drifting in their wake. The girls were eagerly examining the various portraits hanging on the walls, oohing and ahing with admiration.

I got a bit tense, then, I’ll admit. Bad enough the guy was so good-looking! Now the girls were goggling over his talent, too.

Artists. Ought to hang the whole lot. It’s unfair competition for the working stiff.

I was relieved to see that Benvenuti gave them no more than a passing glance. A keen glance, mind—I didn’t care for that at all—but a quick one. His attention was almost immediately riveted on the Cat.

With another man, I would have assumed a certain kind of interest. The woman’s nuts, but she really does have a great figure. But with Benvenuti—

No. It was that “artist’s eye” again.

I couldn’t help laughing. “Yeah, that’s her, Benny. Your model. Good luck! You’re going to need it.”

The artist was now studying her with ferocious intensity. “How does she move?” he muttered. His hands made vague wandering gestures. “So hard to follow. Seems she’s going one way but she’s not, and then—never gets there when you think she’s going to.”

Then: “Fascinating!”

He continued staring at her for some time. The Cat, of course, took no notice at all of the attention she was drawing. She was just—drifting—through the room, looking at everything and nothing in particular.

Again, I laughed. My laugh jerked Benvenuti out of his trance. The artist looked at Greyboar. The expression on the chokester’s face was a combination of pride and bemusement.

“Yeah, she’s the lady I told you about. Can you do her portrait? Her name’s Schrödinger’s Cat, by the way.”

I held my breath. Then, when Benvenuti said nothing, exhaled with disgust.

I hate losing money. Really, really, really hate losing money. But I was already digging into my pocket before Greyboar spoke the inevitable words.

“You owe me a quid.” His ugly oversize mitt was already extended. Sourly, I dropped the coin into it. Poor little coin looked like a lost sheep in that vast expanse.

“We had a bet,” explained Greyboar. “Ignace was sure you’d ask who Schrödinger is, like everybody else does. But I knew you were too refined and gentlemanly, unlike the slobs Ignace hangs out with in The Trough.”

“Of course he is!” exclaimed Jenny. “He’s an artist—a real one!” She pointed to one of the portraits hanging on the wall. “Just look at this! It’s beautiful.”

She turned and bestowed a gleaming smile upon him. “I’m Jenny, by the way. And this is Angela. Ignace should have introduced us, but he’s not refined and gentlemanly.”

Jenny now turned toward the Cat, who was standing at the far wall, examining one of Benvenuti’s paintings. “Hey, Cat!” she hollered. “Come over here and meet the fellow who’s going to paint your portrait.”

The Cat swiveled her head and fixed her gaze on Benvenuti. Through the thick lenses, her eyes seemed huge. And very blue. Ice blue.

“Not like this, I hope,” she stated forcefully, jabbing her finger at the portrait before which she was standing.

Benvenuti laughed. “I should think not! The portraits you see hanging on the walls are the results of commissions which went unpaid. The Sfinctrian nobility, I am afraid, has a lackadaisical attitude toward paying their debts. I simply keep them here as advertisement.”

For a moment, he fell back into his “artist’s trance” way of staring at her, before turning to Greyboar and saying:

“It’s your decision, of course. You’re the customer. But I do not actually think that a formal portrait would do justice to—uh, Cat.”

“The Cat,” Greyboar corrected. He rubbed his chin. “Well—you’re the professional.” He glanced at the Cat, who was off again, wandering about. “I’ll admit it would be difficult to get her to sit still for a formal pose.”