"Simon Hawke - Wizard 4 - The Wizard of Rue Morgue" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

Benet had overheard him.
He suggested wryly that if the young man thought he could do better, perhaps he
should take the brush himself and show them all how it should be done. With an
amused look, the painter handed him the brush and palette. Max stepped up to the
easel, pursed his lips and closely examined what the artist had been doing, then
carefully selected a few tubes of paint, made subtle changes in the pigment mixtures
that Benet was using, and quietly began to paint. The artist moved up close behind him,
watching intently over his shoulder as he worked. After a few moments, Max heard
Benet swear softly and say, "Yes . . . yes . . . of course, exactly!"
He continued painting while Benet watched With growing enthusiasm. Soon the
people in the crowd were asking who the young painter was. And that was how it
started.
It wasn't long before the paintings of Max Siegal were appearing in the Paris art
galleries, commanding prices Max wouldn't have dreamed possible. It was Benet who
had started him on painting nudes and Max soon became famous for it.
Inevitably, women started coming to him, wanting him to paint them, and he soon
had more models than he knew what to do with.
It all went to his head. He started frequenting chic night spots, drinking to excess
and making a reputation for himself as a wild carouser. He became romantically
involved with women who had posed for him, many of whom had lovers or even
husbands, which led to the inevitable public confrontations, brawls, and lawsuits. The
newspapers loved him because he was flamboyant copy and before long, his escapades


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were being exaggerated or even fabricated outright. He would come home to find
naked women in his studio. People he didn't even know claimed intimacy with him. It
all became too much for him and he started drinking even more. He was out of control
and well on the way to self-destruction. And then he met Jacqueline.
They met at a party hosted by a wealthy collector who had bought many of Max's
paintings, along with many nearly priceless works by the old masters. Max had been
the center of attention, as usual, with all the women in the room fawning over him
while the men smoldered with resentment. All the women except one.
He had noticed her immediately, a woman in her late thirties or early forties, with
shoulder-length dark hair prematurely streaked with gray. She had been dressed in a
neo-Edwardian black suit and boots, she chain-smoked unfiltered French cigarettes and
spoke in a husky, whiskey baritone. There was something about her, quite aside from
her striking beauty, that Max had found incredibly compelling. There was a certain
knowingness about her, an utterly implacable self-assurance that was evident in her
slightest gesture and expression. He was fascinated by the character in her face and he
decided that he had to paint her. Only she had refused.
Her refusal had astonished him. He was besieged by women who wanted him to
paint them and here was one not in the least bit interested. He kept after her, pressing
his card on her, but it was no use. She wouldn't change her mind. This only made him
want to paint her that much more. Eventually, the ebb and flow of the party took him
away from her and he did not see her again that evening. He asked everyone who she
was, but no one seemed to know her. And then, the next day, it was discovered that
several of his host's most valuable paintings had disappeared. When Max found out
about it, he was mildly insulted that none of his own paintings were among those that
had been stolen. The police came to question him, not that he was a suspect, but they