Ellery Queen’s Anthology. Volume 12, 1967

Ross Macdonald Murder Is a Public Matter

Lew Archer, private eye, merely dropped in to see his old war buddy, Hugh Western, a talented artist and a demon with the ladies. But first Lew met a bearded nude (resist that opening if you can!).

A hard, tough (in the best senses of both words) short novel by the man who — as virtually all critics agree — has inherited the mantles of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, and whose work represents the best in its field being written today...

The unlatched door swung inward when I knocked. I walked into the studio, which was as high and dim as a hayloft. The big north window in the opposite wall was hung with monk’s-cloth drapes that shut out the morning light. I found the switch next to the door and snapped it on. Several fluorescent tubes suspended from the naked rafters flickered and burned blue-white.

A strange woman faced me under the cruel light. She was only a charcoal sketch on an easel, but she gave me a chill. Her nude body, posed casually on a chair, was slim and round and pleasant to look at. But her face wasn’t pleasant at all. Bushy black eyebrows almost hid her eyes. A walrus mustache bracketed her mouth, and a thick beard fanned down over her torso.

The door creaked behind me. The girl who appeared in the doorway wore a starched white uniform. Her face had a little starch in it, too, though not enough to spoil her good looks. Her black hair was drawn back severely.

“May I ask what you’re doing here?” she said brusquely.

“You may ask. I’m looking for Mr. Western.”

“Really? Have you tried looking behind the pictures?”

“Does he spend much of his time there?”

“No, and another thing he doesn’t do — he doesn’t receive visitors in his studio when he isn’t here himself.”

“Sorry. The door was open, so I walked in.”

“You can now reverse the process.”

“Just a minute. Hugh isn’t sick?”

She glanced down at her white uniform, then shook her head.

“Are you a friend of his?” I said.

“I try to be.” She smiled slightly.

“It isn’t always easy, with a sib. I’m his sister.”

“Not the one he was always talking about?”

“I’m the only one he has.”

I reached back into my mental grab bag of war souvenirs. “Mary. The name was Mary.”

“It still is Mary. Are you a friend Of Hugh’s?”

“I guess I qualify. I used to be.”

“When?” The question was sharp. I got the impression she didn’t approve of Hugh’s friends.

“In the Philippines. He was attached to my group as a combat artist. My name is Archer, by the way — Lew Archer.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Her disapproval didn’t extend to me — at least, not yet. She gave me her hand. It was cool and firm, and went with her steady gaze.

“Hugh gave me the wrong impression of you,” I said, “I thought you were still a kid in school.”

“That was four years ago, remember. People grow up in four years. Anyway, some of them do.”

She was a very serious girl for her age. I changed the subject. “I saw the announcement of his one-man show in the L.A. papers. I’m driving through to San Francisco, and I thought I’d look him up.”

“I know he’ll be glad to see you. I’ll go and wake him. He keeps the most dreadful hours. Sit down, won’t you, Mr. Archer?”

I had been standing with my back to the bearded nude, more or less consciously shielding her from it. When I moved aside and she saw it, she didn’t turn a hair.

“What next?” was all she said.

But I couldn’t help wondering what had happened to Hugh Western’s sense of humor. I looked around the room for something that might explain the ugly sketch.

It was a typical working-artist’s studio. The tables and benches were cluttered with things that are used to make pictures: palettes and daubed sheets of glass, sketch pads, scratchboards, bleeding tubes of paint. Pictures in half a dozen mediums and half a dozen stages of completion hung on or leaned against the burlap-covered walk Some of them looked wild and queer to me, but none so wild and queer as the sketch on the easel.

There was one puzzling thing in the room, besides the pictures. The wooden door frame was scarred with a row of deep round indentations, four of them. They were new, and about on a level with my eyes. They looked as if an incredible fist had struck the wood a superhuman blow.

“He isn’t in his room,” the girl said from the doorway. Her voice was very carefully controlled.

“Maybe he got up early.”

“His bed hasn’t been slept in. He’s been out all night.”

“I wouldn’t worry. After all, he’s an adult.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t always act like one.” A deep feeling buzzed under her calm tone. I couldn’t tell if it was fear or anger. “He’s twelve years older than I am, and still a boy at heart. A middle-aging boy.”

“I know what you mean. I was his unofficial keeper for a while. I guess he’s a genius, or pretty close to it, but he needs somebody to tell him to come in out of the rain.”

“Thank you for informing me. I didn’t know.”

“Now don’t get peeved at me.”

“I’m sorry. I suppose I’m a little upset.”

“Has he been giving you a bad time?”

“Not really. Not lately, that is. He’s come down to earth since he got engaged to Alice. But he still makes the weirdest friends. He can tell a fake Van Gogh with his eyes shut, literally, but he has no discrimination about people at all.”

“You wouldn’t be talking about me?”

“No.” She smiled again. I liked her smile. “I guess I acted terribly suspicious when I walked in on you. Some pretty dubious characters come to see him.”

“Anyone in particular?” I said it lightly. Just above her head I could see the giant fist-mark on the door frame.

Before she could answer, a siren bayed in the distance. She tilted her head. “Ten to one it’s for me.”

“Police?”

“Ambulance. The police sirens have a different tone. I am an x-ray technician at the hospital, so I’ve learned to listen for the ambulance. And I’m on call this morning.”

I followed her into the hall. “Hugh’s show opens tonight. He’s bound to come back for that.”

She turned at the opposite door, her face brightening. “You know, he may have spent the night working in the gallery. He’s awfully fussy about how his pictures are hung.”

“Why don’t I phone the gallery?”

“There’s never anybody in the office till nine.” She looked at her unfeminine steel wrist watch. “It’s twenty to.”

“When did you last see him?”

“At dinner last night. We ate early. He went back to the gallery after dinner. He said he was only going to work a couple of hours.”

“And you stayed here?”

“Until about eight, when I was called to the hospital. I didn’t get home until quite late, and I thought he was in bed.” She looked at me uncertainly, with a little wrinkle of doubt between her straight eyebrows. “Could you be cross-questioning me?”

“Sorry. It’s my occupational disease.”

“What do you do in real life?”

“Isn’t this real?”

“I mean now you’re out of the Army. Are you a lawyer?”

“A private detective.”

“Oh. I see.” The wrinkle between her eyebrows deepened.

“But I’m on vacation,” I said hopefully.

A phone burred behind her apartment door. She went to answer it, and came back wearing a coat. “It was for me. Somebody fell out of a loquat tree and broke a leg. You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Archer.”

“Wait a second. If you’ll tell me where the art gallery is, I’ll see if Hugh’s there now.”

“Of course, you don’t know San Marcos.”

She led me to the French windows at the rear end of the hall. They opened on a blacktop parking space which was overshadowed on the far side by a large stucco building, the shape of a flattened cube. Outside the windows was a balcony from which a concrete staircase slanted down to the parking lot. She stepped outside and pointed to the stucco cube.

“That’s the gallery. You can take a shortcut down the alley to the front.”

A tall young man in a black leotard was polishing a red convertible in the parking lot. He struck a pose, in the fifth position, and waved his hand: “Bon jour, Marie.”

“Bon jour, my phony Frenchman.” There was an edge of contempt in her good humor. “Have you seen Hugh this morning?”

“Not I. Is the prodigal missing again?”

“I wouldn’t say missing—”

“I was wondering where your car was. It’s not in the garage.” His voice was much too musical.

“Who’s he?” I asked in an undertone.

“Hilary Todd. He runs the art shop downstairs. If the car’s gone, Hugh can’t be at the gallery. I’ll have to take a taxi to the hospital.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“I wouldn’t think of it. There’s a cabstand across the street.” She added over her shoulder, “Call me at the hospital if you find Hugh.”

I went down the stairs to the parking lot. Hilary Todd was still polishing the hood of his convertible, though it shone like a mirror. His shoulders were broad and packed with shifting muscle. Some of the ballet boys were strong and could be dangerous. Not that he was a boy, exactly. He had a little round bald spot that gleamed like a silver dollar on the top of his head.

“Bon jour,” I said to his back.

“Yes?”

My French appeared to offend his ears. He turned and straightened. I saw how tall he was — tall enough to make me feel squat, though I was over six feet. He had compensated for the bald spot by growing sideburns. In combination with his liquid eyes they gave him a sort of Latin look.

“Do you know Hugh Western pretty well?”

“If it’s any concern of yours.”

“It is.”

“Now why would that be?”

“I asked the question, sonny. Answer it.”

He blushed and lowered his eyes, as if I had been reading his evil thoughts. He stuttered a little. “I... well, I’ve lived below him for a couple of years. I’ve sold a few of his pictures. Why?”

“I thought you might know where he is, even if his sister doesn’t.”

“How should I know where he is? Are you a policeman?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not at all, you mean?” He regained his poise. “Then you have no right to take this overbearing attitude. I know absolutely nothing about Hugh. And I’m very busy.”

He turned abruptly and continued his polishing job, his fine useless muscles writhing under the leotard.

I walked down the narrow alley which led to the street. Through the cypress hedge on the left I caught a glimpse of umbrella-tables growing like giant multicolored mushrooms in a restaurant patio. In the other side was the wall of the gallery, its white blankness broken by a single iron-barred window above the level of my head.

The front of the gallery was Greek-masked by a high-pillared porch. A broad flight of concrete steps rose to it from the street. A girl was standing at the head of the steps, half leaning on one of the pillars.

She turned toward me, and the slanting sunlight aureoled her bare head. She had a startling kind of beauty: yellow hair, light hazel eyes, brown skin. She filled her tailored suit like sand in a sack — solidly.

“Good morning,” I said.

She pretended not to hear. Her right foot was tapping the pavement impatiently. I crossed the porch to the high bronze door and pushed. It didn’t give.

“There’s nobody here yet,” she said. “The gallery doesn’t open until ten.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I happen to work here.”

“Why don’t you open up?”

“I have no key. In any case,” she added primly, “we don’t allow visitors before ten.”

“I’m not a tourist — at least, not at the moment. I came to see Mr. Western.”

“Hugh?” She looked at me directly for the first time. “Hugh’s not here. He lives around the corner on Rubio Street.”

“I just came from there.”

“Well, he isn’t here.” She gave the word a curious emphasis. “There’s nobody here but me. And I won’t be here much longer if Dr. Silliman doesn’t come.”

“Silliman?”

“Dr. Silliman is our curator.” She made it sound as if she owned the gallery. After a while she said in a softer voice, “Why are you looking for Hugh? Do you have some business with him?”

“Western’s an old friend of mine.”

“Really?”

She suddenly lost interest in the conversation. We stood together in silence for several minutes. I watched the Saturday-morning crowd on the street: women in slacks, women in shorts and dirndls, a few men in ten-gallon hats, a few in berets. Nearly half the cars in the road carried out-of-state licenses. San Marcos was a unique blend of western border town, ocean resort, and artist’s colony.

A small man in a purple corduroy jacket detached himself from the crowd and bounded up the steps. His movements were quick as a monkey’s. His lined face had a simian look, too. A brush of frizzled gray hair added about three inches to his height.

“I’m sorry if I kept you waiting, Alice.”

She made a nada gesture. “It’s perfectly all right. This gentleman is a friend of Hugh’s.”

He turned to me. His smile went on and off. “Good morning, sir. What was the name?”

I told him. He shook my hand. His fingers were like thin steel hooks.

“Western ought to be here at any minute. Have you tried his flat?”

“Yes. His sister thought he might have spent the night in the gallery.”

“Oh, but that’s impossible. You mean he didn’t come home last night?”

“Apparently not.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” the blonde girl said.

“I didn’t know you were interested.”

“Alice has every right to be interested.” Silliman’s eyes glowed with a gossip’s second-hand pleasure. “She and Hugh are going to be married. Next month, isn’t it, Alice? Do you know Miss Turner, by the way, Mr. Archer?”

“Hello, Mr. Archer.” Her voice was shallow and hostile. I gathered that Silliman had somehow embarrassed her.

“I’m sure he’ll be along shortly,” he said reassuringly. “We still have some work to do on the program for the private showing tonight. Will you come in and wait?”

I said I would.

He took a heavy key ring out of his jacket pocket and unlocked the bronze door, relocking it behind us. Alice Turner touched a switch which lit up the high-ceilinged lobby and the Greek statues standing like frozen sentinels along the walls. There were several nymphs and Venuses in marble, but I was more interested in Alice. She had everything the Venuses had, and the added advantage of being alive. She also had Hugh Western, it seemed, and that surprised me. He was a little old for her, and a little used. She didn’t look like one of those girls who’d have to settle for an aging bachelor. But then Hugh Western had talent.

She removed a bundle of letters from the mailbox and took them into the office which opened off the lobby. Silliman turned to me with another monkey grin.

“She’s quite a girl, isn’t she? And she comes from a very good family, an excellent family. Her father, the Admiral, is one of our trustees, you know, and Alice has inherited his interests in the arts. Of course she has a more personal interest now. Had you known of their engagement?”

“I haven’t seen Hugh for years — not since the war.”

“Then I should have held my tongue and let him tell you himself.”

As we were talking he led me through the central gallery, which ran the length of the building like the nave of a church. To the left and right, in what would have been the aisles, the walls of smaller exhibition rooms rose halfway to the ceiling. Above them was a mezzanine reached by an open staircase.

He started up it, still talking. “If you haven’t seen Hugh since the war, you’ll be interested in the work he’s been doing lately.”

I was interested though not for artistic reasons. The wall of the mezzanine was hung with twenty-odd paintings: landscapes, portraits, groups of semi-abstract figures, and more abstract still lifes. I recognized some of the scenes he had sketched in the Philippine jungle, transposed into the permanence of oil. In the central position there was a portrait of a bearded man whom I’d hardly have known without the label, Self-Portrait.

Hugh had changed. He had put on weight and lost his youth entirely. There were vertical lines in his forehead, gray flecks in his hair and beard. The light-colored eyes seemed to be smiling sardonically. But when I looked at them from another angle, they were bleak and somber. It was a face a man might see in his bathroom mirror on a cold gray hangover morning.

I turned to the curator hovering at my elbow. “When did he raise the beard?”

“A couple of years ago, I believe, shortly after he joined us as resident painter.”

“Is he obsessed with beards?”

“I don’t quite know what you mean.”

“Neither do I. But I came across a funny thing in his studio this morning. A sketch of a woman, a nude, with a heavy black beard. Does that make any sense to you?”

The old man smiled. “I’ve long since given up trying to make sense out of Hugh. He has his own esthetic logic, I suppose. But I’d have to see this sketch before I could form an opinion. He may have simply been doodling.”

“I doubt it. It was big, and carefully done.” I brought out the question that had been nagging at the back of my mind. “Is there something the matter with him — I mean, emotionally?”

His answer was positive. “Certainly not! He’s simply wrapped up in his work, and he lives by impulse. He’s never on time for appointments.” He looked at his watch. “He promised last night to meet me here this morning at nine and it’s almost nine thirty.”

“When did you see him last night?”

“I left the key of the gallery with him when I went home for dinner. He wanted to change some of the paintings. About eight or a little later he walked over to my house to return the key. We have only the one key, since we can’t afford a watchman.”

“Did he say where he was going after that?”

“He had an appointment, but he didn’t say with whom. It seemed to be urgent, since he wouldn’t stop for a drink. Well,” He glanced at his watch again. “I suppose I’d better be getting down to work, Hugh Western or no Hugh Western.”

Alice was waiting for us at the foot of the stairs. Both her hands gripped the wrought-iron bannister as if she needed it to hold her up. Her voice was no more than a whisper, but it seemed to fill the great room with leaden echoes.

“Dr. Silliman. The Chardin’s gone.”

He stopped so suddenly I nearly ran him down. “That’s impossible.”

“I know. But it’s gone, frame and all.”

He bounded down the remaining steps and disappeared into one of the smaller rooms under the mezzanine. Alice followed him more slowly. I caught up with her.

“There’s a picture missing?”

“Father’s best picture, one of the best Chardins in the country. He lent it to the gallery for a month.”

“Is it worth a lot of money?”

“Yes, it’s very valuable. But it means a lot more to father than the money—” She turned in the doorway and gave me a closed look, as if she’d realized she was telling her family secrets to a stranger.

Silliman was standing with his back to us, staring at a blank space on the opposite wall. He looked badly shaken when he turned around.

“I told the Board that we should install a burglar alarm — the insurance people recommended it. But Admiral Turner was the only one who supported me. Now of course they’ll be blaming me.” His nervous eyes roved around and paused on Alice. “And what is your father going to say?”

“He’ll be sick.” She looked sick herself.

They were getting nowhere, so I cut in, “When did you see it last?”

Silliman answered. “Yesterday afternoon, about five thirty. I showed it to a visitor just before we closed. We check the visitors very carefully from the office, since we have no guards.”

“Who was the visitor?”

“A lady — an elderly lady from Pasadena. She’s above suspicion, of course. I escorted her out myself, and she was the last one in. I know that for a fact.”

“Aren’t you forgetting Hugh?”

“By George, I was. He was here until eight last night. But you surely don’t suggest that Western took it? He’s our resident painter, he’s devoted to the gallery.”

“He might have been careless. If he was working on the mezzanine and left the door unlocked—”

“He always kept it locked,” Alice said coldly. “Hugh isn’t careless about the things that matter.”

“Is there another entrance?”

“No,” Silliman said. “The building was planned for security. There’s only the one window in my office, and it’s heavily barred. We do have an air-conditioning system, but the inlets are much too small for anyone to get through.”

“Let’s have a look at the window.”

The old man was too upset to question my authority. He led me through a storeroom stacked with old gilt-framed pictures whose painters deserved to be “hung,” if the pictures didn’t. The single casement in the office was shut and bolted behind a Venetian blind. I pulled the cord and peered out through the dusty glass. The vertical bars outside the window were no more than three inches apart. None of them looked as if it had been tampered with. Across the alley I could see a few tourists eating breakfast behind the restaurant hedge.

Silliman was leaning on the desk, one hand on the cradle of the phone. Indecision was twisting his face. “I do hate to call the police in a matter like this. I suppose I must, though, mustn’t I?”

Alice covered his hand with hers, the line of her back a taut curve across the desk. “Hadn’t you better talk to father first? He was here with Hugh last night — I should have remembered before. It’s barely possible he took the Chardin home with him.”

“Really? You really think so?” Silliman let go of the telephone and clasped his hands under his chin.

“It wouldn’t be like father to do that without letting you know. But die month is nearly up, isn’t it?”

“Three more days.” His hand returned to the phone. “Is the Admiral at home?”

“He’ll be down at the club by now. Do you have your car?”

“Not this morning.”

I made one of my famous quick decisions, the kind you wake up in the middle of the night regretting five years later. San Francisco could wait. My curiosity was touched, and something deeper than curiosity. Something of the responsibility I’d felt for Hugh in the Philippines, when I was the practical one and he was the evergreen adolescent who thought the jungle was as safe as a scene by Le Douanier Rousseau. Though we were nearly the same age, I’d felt like his elder brother. I still did.

“My car’s around the corner,” I said. “I’ll be glad to drive you.”

The San Marcos Beach Club was a long low building painted an unobtrusive green and standing well back from the road. Everything about it was unobtrusive, including the private policeman who stood inside the plate-glass doors and watched us come up the walk.

“Looking for the Admiral, Miss Turner? I think he’s up on the north deck.”

We crossed a tiled lanai shaded with potted palms, climbed a flight of stairs to a sun deck lined with cabanas. I could see the mountains that walled the city off from the desert in the northeast, and the sea below with its waves glinting like blue fish-scales. The swimming pool on the lee side of the deck was still and clear.

Admiral Turner was taking the sun in a canvas chair. He stood up when he saw us, a big old man in shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Sun and wind had reddened his face and crinkled the flesh around his eyes. Age had slackened his body, but there was nothing aged or infirm about his voice. It still held the brazen echo of command.

“What’s this, Alice? I thought you were at work.”

“We came to ask you a question, Admiral.” Silliman hesitated, coughing behind his hand. He looked at Alice.

“Speak out, man. Why is everybody looking so green around the gills?”

Silliman forced the words out. “Did you take the Chardin home with you last night?”

“I did not. Is it gone?”

“It’s missing from the gallery,” Alice said. She held herself uncertainly, as though the old man frightened her a little. “We thought you might have taken it.”

“Me take it? That’s absurd! Absolutely absurd and preposterous!” The short white hair bristled on his head. “When was it taken?”

“We don’t know exactly. It was gone when we opened the gallery.”

“Damn it, what’s going on?” He glared at her, then he glared at me from eyes like round blue gun muzzles. “And who the hell are you?”

He was only a retired admiral, and I’d been out of uniform for years; still he gave me a qualm.

Alice explained: “A friend of Hugh’s, Father. Mr. Archer.”

He didn’t offer his hand. I looked away. A woman in a white bathing suit was poised on the ten-foot board at the end of the pool. She took three quick steps and a bounce. Her body hung jackknifed in the air, straightened and dropped, then cut the water with hardly a splash.

“Where is Hugh?” the Admiral said petulantly. “If this is some of his carelessness, I’ll ream that son-of-a—”

“Father!”

“Don’t father me. Where is he, Allie? You ought to know if anyone does.”

“But I don’t.” She added in a small voice, “He’s been gone all night.”

“He has, has he?” The old man sat down suddenly, as if his legs were too weak to bear the weight of his emotions. “He didn’t say anything to me about going away.”

The woman in the white bathing suit came up the steps behind him. “Who’s gone?” she said.

The Admiral craned his wattled neck to look at her. She was worth the effort from anyone, though she wouldn’t see thirty again. Her dripping body was tanned and disciplined, full in the right places and narrow in the others. I didn’t remember her face, but her shape seemed familiar. Silliman introduced her as Admiral Turner’s wife. When she pulled off her rubber cap, her red hair flared like a minor conflagration.

“You won’t believe what they’ve been telling me, Sara. My Chardin’s been stolen.”

“Which one?”

“I only have one. The Apple on a Table.”

She turned on Silliman like a pouncing cat. “Is it insured?”

“For twenty-five thousand dollars. But I’m afraid it’s irreplaceable.”

“And who’s gone?”

“Hugh,” Alice said. “Of course it’s nothing to do with the picture.”

“You’re sure?” She turned to her husband with an intensity that made her almost ungainly. “Hugh was at the gallery when you dropped in there last night. You told me so yourself. And hasn’t he been trying to buy the Chardin?”

“I don’t believe it,” Alice said flatly. “He didn’t have the money.”

“I know that perfectly well,” Sara said. “He was acting as agent for someone. Wasn’t he, Johnston?”

“Yes,” the old man admitted. “He wouldn’t tell me who his principal was, which is one of the reasons I wouldn’t listen to the offer. Still, it’s foolish to jump to conclusions about Hugh. I was with him when he left the gallery, and I know for a fact he didn’t have the Chardin then. It was the last thing I looked at before we left.”

“What time did he leave you?”

“Some time around eight — I don’t remember exactly.” He seemed to be growing older and smaller under her questioning. “He walked with me as far as my car.”

“There was nothing to prevent him from walking right back, was there?”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove,” Alice said.

The older woman smiled poisonously. “I’m simply trying to bring out the facts, so we’ll know what to do. I notice that no one has suggested calling the police.” She looked at each of the others in turn. “Well? Do we call them? Or do we assume as a working hypothesis that dear Hugh took the picture?”

Nobody answered her for a while. The Admiral finally broke the ugly silence. “We can’t bring in the authorities if Hugh’s involved. He’s virtually a member of the family.”

Alice put a grateful hand on his shoulder, but Silliman said uneasily, “We’ll have to take some steps. If we don’t make an effort to recover it, we may not be able to collect the insurance.”

“I realize that,” the Admiral said. “But we’ll have to take that chance.”

Sara Turner smiled with tight-lipped complacency. She’d won her point, though I still wasn’t sure what her point was. During the family argument I’d moved a few feet away, leaning on the railing at the head of the stairs.

She moved toward me now, her narrow eyes appraising me as if maleness was a commodity she prized.

“And who are you?” she said, her sharp smile widening.

I identified myself, but I didn’t smile back, She came up very close to me. I could smell the chlorine on her, and under it the not so very subtle odor of sex.

“You look uncomfortable,” she said. “Why don’t you come swimming with me?”

“My hydrophobia won’t let me. Sorry.”

“What a pity. I hate to do things alone.”

Silliman nudged me gently. He said in an undertone, “I really must be getting back to the gallery. I can call a cab if you prefer.”

“No, I’ll drive you.” I wanted a chance to talk to him in private.

There were quick footsteps in the patio below. I looked down and saw the partly naked crown of Hilary Todd’s head. At almost the same instant he glanced up at us, turned abruptly, and started to walk away; then he changed his mind when Silliman called down:

“Hello there. Are you looking for the Turners?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

From the corner of my eye I noticed Sara Turner’s reaction to the sound of his voice. She stiffened, and her hand went up to her flaming hair.

“They’re up here,” Silliman said.

Todd climbed the stairs with obvious reluctance. We passed him going down. In a pastel shirt and matching tie under a bright tweed jacket he looked very elegant, and very self-conscious and tense. Sara Turner met him at the head of the stairs. I wanted to linger a bit, but Silliman hustled me out.

“Mrs. Turner seems very much aware of Todd,” I said to him in the car. “Do they have things in common?”

He answered tartly, “I’ve never considered the question. They’re no more than casual acquaintances, so far as I know.”

“What about Hugh? Is he just a casual acquaintance of hers, too?”

He studied me for a minute as the convertible picked up speed. “You notice things, don’t you?”

“Noticing things is my business.”

“Just what is your business? You’re not an artist?”

“Hardly. I’m a private detective.”

“A detective?” He jumped in the seat, as if I had threatened to bite him. “You’re not a friend of Western’s then? Are you from the insurance company?”

“Not me. I’m a friend of Hugh’s, and that’s my only interest in this case. I more or less stumbled into it.”

“I see.” But he sounded a little dubious.

“Getting back to Mrs. Turner, she didn’t make that scene with her husband for fun. She must have had reason. Love or hate?”

Silliman held his tongue for a minute, but he couldn’t resist the chance to gossip. “I expect it’s a mixture of love and hate. She’s been interested in Hugh ever since the Admiral brought her here. She’s not a San Marcos girl, you know.” He seemed to take comfort from that. “She was a Wave officer in Washington during the war. The Admiral noticed her — Sara knows how to make herself conspicuous — and added her to his personal staff. When he retired he married her and came here to live in his family home. Alice’s mother has been dead for many years. Well, Sara hadn’t been here two months before she was making eyes at Hugh.” He pressed his lips together in spinsterly disapproval. “The rest is local history.”

“They had an affair?”

“A rather one-sided affair, so far as I could judge. She was quite insane about him. I don’t believe he responded, except in the physical sense. Your friend is quite a demon with the ladies.” There was a whisper of envy in Silliman’s disapproval

“But I understood he was going to marry Alice.”

“Oh, he is, he is. At least he certainly was until this dreadful business came up. His... ah... involvement with Sara occurred before he knew Alice. She was away at art school until a few months ago.”

“Does Alice know about his affair with her stepmother?”

“I suppose she does. I hear the two women don’t get along at all well, though there may be other reasons for that. Alice refuses to live in the same house — she’s moved into the gardener’s cottage behind the Turner house. I think her trouble with Sara is one reason why she came to work for me. Of course, there’s the money consideration, too. The Turners aren’t well off.”

“I thought they were rolling in it,” I said, “from the way he brushed off the matter of the insurance. Twenty-five thousand dollars, did you say?”

“Yes. He’s quite fond of Hugh.”

“If he’s not well heeled, how does he happen to have such a valuable painting?”

“It was a gift, when he married his first wife. Her father was in the French Embassy in Washington, and he gave them the Chardin as a wedding present. You can understand the Admiral’s attachment to it.”

“Better than I can his decision not to call in the police. How do you feel about that, Doctor?”

He didn’t answer for a while. We were nearing the center of the city and I had to watch the traffic. I couldn’t keep track of what went on in his face.

“After all it is his picture,” he said carefully. “And his prospective son-in-law.”

“You don’t think Hugh’s responsible, though?”

“I don’t know what to think. I’m thoroughly confused. And I won’t know what to think until I have a chance to talk to Western.” He gave me a sharp look. “Are you going to make a search for him?”

“Somebody has to. I seem to be elected.”

When I let him out in front of the gallery, I asked him where Mary Western worked.

“The City Hospital.” He told me how to find it. “But you will be discreet, Mr. Archer? You won’t do or say anything rash? I’m in a very delicate position.”

“I’ll be very suave and bland.” But I slammed the door hard in his face.

There were several patients in the x-ray waiting room, in various stages of dilapidation and disrepair. The plump blonde at the reception desk told me Miss Western was in the dark room. Would I wait? I sat down and admired the way her sunburned shoulders glowed through her nylon uniform. In a few minutes Mary came into the room, starched and controlled and efficient-looking. She blinked in the strong light from the window. I got a quick impression that there was a lost child hidden within her.

“Have you seen Hugh?” she asked.

“No. Come out for a minute.” I took her elbow and drew her into the corridor.

“What is it?” Her voice was quiet but it had risen in pitch. “Has something happened to him?”

“Not to him. Admiral Turner’s picture’s been stolen from the gallery. The one they all call the Chardin.”

“But how does Hugh come into this?”

“Somebody seems to think he took it.”

“Somebody?”

“Mrs. Turner, to be specific.”

“Sara! She’d say anything to get back at him for ditching her.”

I filed that one away. “Maybe so. The fact is, the Admiral seems to suspect him, too. So much so that he’s keeping the police out of it.”

“Admiral Turner is a senile fool. If Hugh were here to defend himself—”

“But that’s the point. He isn’t.”

“I’ve got to find him.” She turned toward the door.

“It may not be so easy.”

She looked back in quick anger, her round chin prominent. “You suspect him too.”

“I do not. But a crime’s been committed, remember. Crimes often come in pairs.”

She turned, her eyes large and very dark. “You do think something has happened to my brother.”

“I don’t think anything. But if I was certain that he’s all right, I’d be on my way to San Francisco now.”

“You believe it’s as bad as that,” she said in a whisper. “I’ve got to go to the police.”

“It’s up to you. You’ll want to keep them out of it, though, if there’s the slightest chance—” I left the sentence unfinished.

She finished it: “That Hugh is a thief? There isn’t. But I’ll tell you what we’ll do. He may be up at his shack in the mountains. He’s gone off there before without telling anyone. Will you drive up with me?” She laid a light hand on my arm. “I can go myself if you have to get away.”

“I’m sticking around,” I said. “Can you get time off?”

“I’m taking it. All they can do is fire me, and there aren’t enough good technicians to go around. Anyway, I put in three hours overtime last night. Be with you in two minutes.”

I put the top of the convertible down. As we drove out of the city the wind blew away her smooth glaze of efficiency, colored her cheeks, and loosened her sleek hair.

“You should do this oftener,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Get out in the country and relax.”

“I’m not exactly relaxed, with my brother accused of theft — and missing.”

“Anyway, you’re not working. Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps you work too hard?”

“Has it ever-occurred to you that somebody has to work or nothing will get done? You and Hugh are more alike than I thought.”

“In some ways that’s a compliment. But you make it sound like an insult.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. But Hugh and I are so different. I admit he works hard at his painting, but he’s never tried to make a steady living. Since I left school, I’ve had to look after the bread and butter for both of us. His salary as resident painter keeps him in artist’s supplies, and that’s about all.”

“I thought he was doing well. His show’s had a big advance buildup in the L.A. papers.”

“Critics don’t buy pictures,” she said bluntly. “He’s having the show to try and sell some paintings, so he can afford to get married. Hugh has suddenly realized that money is one of the essentials.” She added with some bitterness, “The realization came a little late.”

“He’s been doing some outside work, though, hasn’t he? Isn’t he a part-time agent or something?”

“For Hendryx, yes.” She made the name sound like a dirty word. “I’d just as soon he didn’t take any of that man’s money.”

“Who’s Hendryx?”

“A man.”

“I gathered that. What’s the matter with his money?”

“I really don’t know. I have no idea where it comes from. But he has it — plenty of it.”

“You don’t like him?”

“No. I don’t like him and I don’t like the men who work for him. They look like a gang of thugs to me. But Hugh wouldn’t notice that. He’s horribly dense where people are concerned. I don’t mean that Hugh’s done anything wrong,” she added quickly. “He’s bought a few paintings for Hendryx on commission.”

“I see.” But I didn’t like what I saw. “The Admiral said something about Hugh trying to buy the Chardin for an unnamed purchaser. Would that be Hendryx?”

“It could be,” she said.

“Tell me more about Hendryx.”

“I don’t know any more. I only met him once. That was enough. I know that he’s an evil old man, and he has a bodyguard who carries him upstairs.”

“Carries him upstairs?”

“Yes. He’s crippled. As a matter of fact, he offered me a job.”

“Carrying him upstairs?”

“He didn’t specify my duties. He didn’t get that far.” Her voice was so chilly it quick-froze the conversation. “Now could we drop the subject, Mr. Archer?”

The road had begun to rise toward the mountains. Yellow and black Slide Area signs sprung up along the shoulders. By holding the gas pedal nearly to the floor, I kept our speed around fifty.

“You’ve had quite a busy morning,” Mary said after a while, “meeting the Turners and all.”

“Social mobility is my stock in trade.”

“Did you meet Alice, too?”

I nodded.

“And what did you think of her?”

“I shouldn’t say it to another girl, but she’s a lovely one.”

“Vanity isn’t one of my vices,” Mary said. “She’s beautiful. And she’s really devoted to Hugh.”

“I gathered that.”

“I don’t think Alice has ever been in love before. And painting means almost as much to her as it does to him.”

“He’s a lucky man.” I remembered the disillusioned eyes in Hugh’s self-portrait, and hoped his luck was holding.

The road twisted and climbed through red clay cut banks and fields of dry chaparral.

“How long does this go on?” I asked.

“Another two miles.”

We zigzagged up the mountainside for ten or twelve minutes more. Finally the road began to level out. I was watching its edge so closely that I didn’t see the cabin until we were almost on top of it. It was a one-story frame building standing in a little hollow at the edge of the high mesa. Attached to one side was an open tarpaulin shelter from which the rear end of a gray coupe protruded. I looked at Mary.

She nodded. “It’s our car.” Her voice was bright with relief.

I stopped the convertible in the lane in front of the cabin. As soon as the engine died, the silence began. A single hawk high over our heads swung round and round on his invisible wire. Apart from that, the entire world seemed empty. As we walked down the ill-kept gravel drive, I was startled by the sound of my own footsteps.

The door was unlocked. The cabin had only one room. It was a bachelor hodgepodge, untouched by the human hand for months at a time. Cooking utensils, paint-stained dungarees, painter’s tools, and soiled bedding were scattered on the floor and furniture. There was an open bottle of whiskey, half — empty, on the kitchen table in the center of the room. It would have been just another mountain shack if it hadn’t been for the watercolors on the walls, like brilliant little windows, and the one big window which opened on the sky.

Mary had crossed to the window and was looking out. I moved up to her shoulder. Blue space fell away in front of us all the way down to the sea, and beyond to the curved horizon. San Marcos and its suburbs were spread out like an air-map between the sea and the mountains.

“I wonder where he can be,” she said. “Perhaps he’s gone for a walk. After all, he doesn’t know we’re looking for him.”

I looked down the mountainside, which fell almost sheer from the window.

“No,” I said. “He doesn’t.”

The red clay slope was sown with boulders. Nothing grew there except a few dust-colored mountain bushes... and a foot, wearing a man’s shoe, which projected from a cleft between two rocks.

I went out without a word. A path led round the cabin to the edge of the slope. Hugh Western was there, attached to the solitary foot. He was lying, or hanging, head down, with his face in the clay, about twenty feet below the edge. One of his legs was doubled under him. The other was caught between the boulders. I climbed around the rocks and bent down to look at his head.

The right temple was smashed. The face was smashed — I raised the rigid body to look at it. He had been dead for hours, but the sharp strong odor of whiskey still hung around him.

A tiny gravel avalanche rattled past me. Mary was at the top of the slope.

“Don’t come down here.”

She paid no attention to the warning. I stayed where I was, crouched over the body, trying to hide the ruined head from her. She leaned over the boulder and looked down, her eyes bright-black in her drained face. I moved to one side. She took her brother’s head in her hands.

“If you pass out,” I said, “I don’t know whether I can carry you up.”

“I won’t pass out.”

She lifted the body by the shoulders to look at the face. It was a little unsettling to see how strong she was. Her fingers moved gently over the wounded temple. “This is what killed him. It looks like a blow from a fist.”

I kneeled down beside her and saw the row of rounded indentations in the skull.

“He must have fallen,” she said, “and struck his head on the rocks. Nobody could have hit him that hard.”

“I’m afraid somebody did, though.” Somebody whose fist was hard enough to leave its mark in wood.

Two long hours later I parked my car in front of the art shop on Rubio Street. Its windows were jammed with Impressionist and Post-Impressionist reproductions, and one very bad original oil of surf as stiff and static as whipped cream. The sign above the windows was lettered in flowing script: Chez Hilary. The cardboard sign on the door was simpler and to the point. It said: Closed.

The stairs and hallway seemed dark, but it was good to get out of the sun. The sun reminded me of what I had found at high noon on the high mesa. It wasn’t the middle of the afternoon yet, but my nerves felt stretched and scratchy, as though it were late at night. And my eyes were aching.

Mary unlocked the door of her apartment, stepped aside to let me pass. She paused at the door of her room to tell me there was whiskey on the sideboard. I offered to make her a drink. No, thanks, she never drank. The door shut behind her. mixed a whiskey and water and tried to relax in an easy chair. But I couldn’t relax. My mind kept playing back the questions and the answers — and the questions that had no answers.

We had called the sheriff from the nearest fire warden’s post, led him and his deputies back up the mountain to the body. Photographs were taken, the cabin and its surroundings searched, and many questions were asked. Mary didn’t mention the Chardin. Neither did I.

Some of the questions were answered after the county coroner arrived. Hugh Western had been dead since eight or ten o’clock the previous night; the coroner couldn’t place the time more definitely before analyzing the stomach contents. The blow on the temple had killed him. The injuries to his face, which had failed to bleed, had probably been inflicted after death. Which meant that he was dead when his body fell — or was thrown — down the mountainside.

His clothes had been soaked with whiskey to make it look like a drunken accident. But the murderer had gone too far in covering, and had outwitted himself. The whiskey bottle in the cabin showed no fingerprints, not even Western’s. And there were no fingerprints on the steering wheel of his coupe. Bottle and wheel had been wiped clean.

I stood up when Mary came back into the room. She had brushed her black hair gleaming, and changed to a dress of soft black jersey which fitted her like skin. A thought raced through my mind like a nasty little rodent. I wondered what she would look like with a beard.

“Can I have another peek at the studio? I’m interested in that sketch.”

She stared at me for a moment, frowning a little dazedly. “Sketch?”

“The one of the lady with the beard.”

She crossed the hall ahead of me, walking slowly and carefully as if the floor was unsafe. The door of the studio was still unlocked. She held it open for me and pressed the light switch.

When the fluorescent lights blinked on, I saw that the picture of the bearded nude was gone. There was nothing left of her but four torn corners of drawing paper thumbtacked to the easel.

I turned to Mary. “Did you take it down?”

“No. I haven’t been in the studio since this morning.”

“Somebody’s stolen it then. Is there anything else missing?”

“I can’t be sure, it’s such a mess in here.” She moved around the room looking at the pictures on the walls and pausing finally by a table in the corner. “There was a bronze cast on this table. It isn’t here now.”

“What sort of cast?”

“The cast of a fist. Hugh made it from the fist of that man — that dreadful man I told you about.”

“What dreadful man?”

“I think his name is Devlin. He’s Hendryx’ bodyguard. Hugh’s always been interested in hands, and the man has enormous hands.”

Her eyes unfocused suddenly. I guessed she was thinking of the same thing I was: the marks on the side of Hugh’s head, which might have been made by a giant fist.

“Look.” I pointed to the scars on the door frame. “Could the cast of Devlin’s fist have made these marks?”

She felt the indentations with trembling fingers. “I think so.” She turned to me with a dark question in her eyes.

“If that’s what they are,” I said, “it probably means that he was killed in this studio. You should tell the police about it. And I think it’s time they knew about the Chardin.”

She gave me a look of passive resistance. Then she gave in. “Yes, I’ll have to tell them. They’ll find out soon enough, anyway. But I’m surer now than ever that Hugh didn’t take it.”

“What does the picture look like? If we could find it, we might find the killer attached to it.”

“You think so? Well, it’s a picture of a little boy looking at an apple. Wait a minute — Hilary has a copy. It was painted by one of the students at the college, and it isn’t very expert. It’ll give you an idea, though, if you want to go down to his shop and look at it.”

“The shop is closed.”

“He may be there anyway. He has a little apartment at the back.”

I started for the hall, but turned before I got there. “Just who is Hilary Todd?”

“I don’t know where he’s from originally. He was stationed here during the war, and simply stayed on. His parents had money at one time, and he studied painting and ballet in Paris, or so he claims.”

“Art seems to be the main industry in San Marcos.”

“You’ve just been meeting the wrong people.”

I went down the outside stairs to the parking lot. Todd’s convertible stood near the mouth of the alley. I knocked on the back door of the art shop. There was no answer, but behind the venetian-blinded door I heard a murmur of voices — a growling and a twittering. Todd had a woman with him. I knocked again.

After more delay the door was partly opened. Todd looked out through the crack. He was wiping his mouth with a red-stained handkerchief. The stains were too bright to be blood. Above the handkerchief his eyes were bright and narrow, like slivers of polished agate.

“Good afternoon.”

I moved forward as though I fully expected to be let in. He opened the door reluctantly under the nudging pressure of my shoulder, backed into a narrow passage between two wall board partitions.

“What can I do for you, Mr. — ? I don’t believe I know your name.”

Before I could answer, a woman’s voice said clearly, “It’s Mr. Archer, isn’t it?”

Sara Turner appeared in the doorway behind him, carrying a highball glass and looking freshly groomed. Her red hair was unruffled, her red mouth gleaming as if she had just finished painting it.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Turner.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Archer.” She leaned in the doorway, almost too much at ease. “Do you know Hilary, Mr. Archer? You should. Everybody should. Hilary’s simply loaded and dripping with charm, aren’t you, dear?” Her mouth curled in a thin smile.

Todd looked at her with open hatred, then turned to me without changing his look. “Did you wish to speak to me?”

“I did. You have a copy of Admiral Turner’s Chardin?”

“A copy, yes.”

“Can I have a look at it?”

“What on earth for?”

“I want to be able to identify the original. It’s probably connected with the murder.”

I watched them both as I said the word. Neither showed surprise.

“We heard about it on the radio,” the woman said. “It must have been dreadful for you.”

“Dreadful,” Todd echoed her, injecting synthetic sympathy into his dark eyes.

“Worse for Western,” I said, “and for whoever did it. Do you still think he stole the picture, Mrs. Turner?”

Todd glanced at her sharply. She was embarrassed, as I’d intended her to be. She dunked her embarrassment in her highball glass, swallowing deeply from it and leaving a red half moon on its rim.

“I never thought he stole it,” her wet mouth lied. “I merely suggested the possibility.”

“I see. Didn’t you say something about Western trying to buy the picture from your husband? That he was acting as agent for somebody else?”

“I wasn’t the one who said that. I didn’t know it.”

“The Admiral said it then. It would be interesting to know who the other man was. He wanted the Chardin, and it looks to me as if Hugh Western died because somebody wanted the Chardin.”

Todd had been listening hard and saying nothing. “I don’t see any connection,” he said. “But if you’ll come in and sit down I’ll show you my copy.”

“You wouldn’t know who it was that Western was acting for?”

He spread his palms outward in a Continental gesture. “How would I know?”

“You’re in the picture business.”

“I was in the picture business.” He turned abruptly and left the room.

Sara Turner had crossed to a portable bar in the corner. She was-splintering ice with a silver-handled ice pick. “May I make you one, Mr. Archer?”,

“No, thanks.” I sat down in a cubistic chair designed for people with square corners, and watched her take half of her fresh highball in a single gulp. “What did Todd mean when he said he was in the picture business? Doesn’t he run this place?”

“He has to give it up. The boutique’s gone broke, and he’s going around testing shoulders to cry on.”

“Yours?” A queer kind of hostile intimacy had risen between us, and I tried to make the most of it.

“Where did you get that notion?”

“I thought he was a friend of yours.”

“Did you?” Her laugh was too loud to be pleasant. “You ask a great many questions, Mr. Archer.”

“They seem to be indicated. The cops in a town like this are pretty backward about stepping on people’s toes.”

“You’re not.”

“No. I’m just passing through. I can follow my hunches.”

“What do you hope to gain?”

“Nothing for myself. I’d like to see justice done.”

She sat down facing me, her knees almost touching mine. They were pretty knees, and uncovered. I felt crowded. Her voice, full of facile emotion, crowded me more.

“Were you terribly fond of Hugh?” she asked.

“I liked him.” My answer was automatic. I was thinking of something else: the way she sat in her chair with her knees together, her body sloping backward, sure of its firm lines. I’d seen the same pose in charcoal that morning.

“I liked him too,” she was saying. “Very much. And I’ve been thinking — I’ve remembered something. Something that Hilary mentioned a couple of weeks ago — about Walter Hendryx wanting to buy the Chardin. It seems Hugh and Walter Hendryx were talking in the shop—”

She broke off suddenly. She had looked up and seen Todd leaning through the doorway, his face alive with anger. His shoulders moved slightly in her direction. She recoiled, clutching her glass. If I hadn’t been there, he would have hit her. As it was, he said in monotone, “How cozy. Haven’t you had quite a bit to drink, Sara darling?”

She was afraid of him, but unwilling to admit it. “I have to do something to make present company bearable.”

“You should be thoroughly anesthetized by now.”

“If you say so, darling.”

She hurled her half-empty glass at the wall beside the door. It shattered, denting the wallboard and splashing a photograph of Nijinsky as the Faun. Some of the liquid splattered on Todd’s blue suede shoes.

“Very nice,” he said. “I love your girlish antics, Sara. I also love the way you run at the mouth.” He turned to me. “This is the copy, Mr. Archer. Don’t mind her, she’s just a weensy bit drunky.”

He held it up for me to see, an oil painting about a yard square showing a small boy in a blue waistcoat sitting at a table. In the center of the linen tablecloth there was a blue dish containing a red apple. The boy was looking at the apple as if he intended to eat it. The copyist had included the signature and date: Chardin, 1774.

“It’s not very good,” Todd said, “if you’ve ever seen the original. But of course you haven’t?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad. You probably never will now, and it’s really perfect. Perfect. It’s the finest Chardin west of Chicago.”

“I haven’t given up hope of seeing it.”

“You might as well, old boy. It’ll be well on its way by now, to Europe or South America. Picture thieves move fast, before the news of the theft catches up with them and spoils the market. They’ll sell the Chardin to a private buyer in Paris or Buenos Aires, and that’ll be the end of it.”

“Why ‘they’?”

“Oh, they operate in gangs. One man can’t handle the theft and disposal of a picture by himself. Division of labor is necessary, and specialization.”

“You sound like a specialist yourself.”

“I am in a way.” He smiled obliquely. “Not in the way you mean. I was in museum work before the war.”

He stopped and propped the picture against the wall. I glanced at Sara Turner. She was hunched forward in her chair, still and silent, her hands spread over her face.

“And now,” he said to me, “I suppose you’d better go. I’ve done what I can for you. And I’ll give you a tip if you like. Picture thieves don’t commit murder — they’re simply not the type. So I’m afraid your precious hypothesis is based on bad information.”

“Thanks very much,” I said. “I certainly appreciate that. Also your hospitality.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He raised an ironic brow, and turned to the door. I followed him out through the deserted shop. Most of the stock seemed to be in the window. Its atmosphere was sad and broken-down — the atmosphere of an empty-hearted, unprosperous, second-rate Bohemia. Todd didn’t look around like a proprietor. He had already abandoned the place in his mind, it seemed.

He unlocked the front door. The last thing he said before he shut it behind me was:

“I wouldn’t go bothering Walter Hendryx about the story of Sara’s. She’s not a very trustworthy reporter, and Hendryx isn’t as tolerant of intruders as I am.”

So it was true.

I left my car where it was and crossed to a taxi stand on the opposite corner. There was a yellow cab at the stand, with a brown-faced driver reading a comic book behind the wheel. The comic book had dead women on the cover. The driver detached his hot eyes from its interior, leaned wearily over the back of the seat, and opened the door for me. “Where to?”

“A man called Walter Hendryx — know where he lives?”

“Off of Foothill Drive. I been up there before. It’s a two-fifty run — outside the city limits.” His New Jersey accent didn’t quite go with his Sicilian features.

“Newark?”

“Trenton.” He showed bad teeth in a good smile. “Want to make something out of it?”

“Nope. Let’s go.”

He spoke to me over his shoulder when we were out of the heavy downtown traffic. “You got your passport?”

“What kind of place are you taking me to?”

“They don’t like visitors. You got to have a visa to get in, and a writ of habeas corpus to get out. The old man’s scared of burglars or something.”

“Why?”

“He’s got about ten million reasons, the way I hear it. Ten million bucks.” He smacked his lips. “Where did he get it?”

“You tell me. I’ll drop everything and take off for the same place.”

“You and me both.”

“I heard he’s a big contractor in L.A.,” the driver said. “I drove a reporter up here a couple of months ago, from one of the L.A. papers. He was after an interview with the old guy — about a tax case.”

“A corporate tax?”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s way over my head, friend, all that tax business. I have enough trouble with my own forms.”

“What happened to the reporter?”

“I drove him right back down. The old man wouldn’t see him. He likes his privacy.”

“I’m beginning to get the idea.”

“You a reporter, too, by any chance?”

“No.”

We left the city limits. The mountains rose ahead, violet and unshadowed in the sun’s lengthening rays. Foothill Drive wound through a canyon, across a high-level bridge, up the side of a hill from which the sea was visible like a low blue cloud on the horizon. We turned off the road through an open gate on which a sign was posted: Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.

A second gate closed the road at the top of the hill. It was a double gate of wrought iron hung between a stone gatepost and a stone gatehouse. A heavy wire fence stretched out from it on both sides, following the contours of the hills as far as I could see. The Hendryx estate was about the size of a small European principality.

The driver honked his horn. A thick-waisted man in a Panama hat came out of the stone cottage. He waddled up to the cab and snapped, “Well?”

“I came to see Mr. Hendryx about a picture.”

He opened the cab door and looked me over, from eyes that were heavily shuttered with old scar tissue. “You ain’t the one that was here this morning.”

I had my first good idea of the day. “You mean the tall fellow with the sideburns?”

“Yeah.”

“I just came from him.”

He rubbed his heavy chin with his knuckles, making a rasping noise. The knuckles were jammed.

“I guess it’s all right,” he said finally. “Give me your name and I’ll phone it down to the house. You can drive down.”

He opened the gate and let us through into a shallow valley. Below, in a maze of shrubbery, a long low house was flanked by tennis courts and stables. Sunk in the terraced lawn behind the house was an oval pool like a wide green eye staring at the sky. A short man in bathing trunks was sitting in a Thinker pose on the diving board at one end.

He and the pool dropped out of sight as the cab slid down the eucalyptus-lined road. It stopped under a portico at the side of the house. A uniformed maid was waiting at the door.

“This is farther than that reporter got,” the driver said in an undertone. “You got connections?”

“The best people in town.”

“Mr. Archer?” the maid said. “Mr. Hendryx is having his swim. I’ll show you the way.”

I told the driver to wait, and followed her through the house. I saw when I stepped outside that the man on the diving board wasn’t short at all. He only seemed to be short because he was so wide. Muscle bulged out his neck, clustered on his shoulders and chest, encased his arms and legs. He looked like a graduate of Muscle Beach, a subman trying hard to be a superman.

There was another man floating in the water, the blotched brown swell of his stomach breaking the surface like the shellback of a Galapagos tortoise. Thinker stood up, accompanied by his muscles, and called to him, “Mr. Hendryx!”

The man in the water rolled over lazily and paddled to the side of the pool. Even his head was tortoiselike, seamed and bald and impervious-looking. He stood up in the waist-deep water and raised his thin brown arms. The other man bent over him. He drew him out of the water and steadied him on his feet, rubbing him with a towel.

“Thank you, Devlin.”

“Yessir.”

Leaning far forward with his arms dangling like a withered hairless ape, Hendryx shuffled toward me. The joints of his knees and ankles were knobbed and stiffened by what looked like arthritis. He peered up at me from his permanent crouch.

“You want to see me?” The voice that came out of his crippled body was surprisingly rich and deep. He wasn’t as old as he looked. “What is it?”

“A painting was stolen last night from the San Marcos gallery — Chardin’s Apple on a Table. I’ve heard that you were interested in it.”

“You’ve been misinformed. Good afternoon.” His face closed like a fist.

“You haven’t heard all of it.”

Disregarding me, he called to the maid who was waiting at a distance. “Show this man out.”

Devlin came up beside me, strutting like a wrestler, his great curved hands conspicuous.

“The rest of it,” I said, “is that Hugh Western was murdered at the same time. I think you knew him?”

“I knew him, yes. His death is unfortunate. Regrettable. But so far as I know, it has nothing to do with the Chardin and nothing to do with me. Will you go now, or do I have to have you removed?”

He raised his cold eyes to mine. I stared him down, but there wasn’t much satisfaction in that.

“You take murder pretty lightly, Hendryx.”

“Mr. Hendryx to you,” Devlin said in my ear. “Come on now, bud. You heard what Mr. Hendryx said.”

“I don’t take orders from him.”

“I do,” he said with a lopsided grin like a heat-split in a melon. His small eyes shifted to Hendryx. “You want for me to throw him out?”

Hendryx nodded, backing away. His eyes were heating up, as if the prospect of violence excited him. Devlin’s hand took my wrist. His fingers closed around it and overlapped.

“What is this, Devlin?” I said. “I thought Hugh Western was a pal of yours.”

“Sure thing.”

“I’m trying to find who killed him. Aren’t you interested? Or did you slap him down yourself?”

Devlin blinked stupidly, trying to hold two questions in his mind at the same time.

Hendryx said from a safe distance, “Don’t talk. Just give him a going-over and toss him out.”

Devlin looked at Hendryx. His grip was like a thick handcuff on my wrist. I jerked his arm up and ducked under it, breaking the hold, and chopped at his nape. The bulging back of his neck was hard as a redwood bole.

He wheeled, then reached for me again. The muscles in his arms moved like drugged serpents. He was slow. My right fist found his chin and snapped it back on his neck. He recovered, and swung at me. I stepped inside his roundhouse and hammered his ridged stomach, twice, four times. It was like knocking my fists against the side of a corrugated iron building. His great arms closed on me. I slipped down and away.

When he came after me, I shifted my attack to his head, jabbing with the left until he was off-balance on his heels. Then I pivoted and threw a long right hook which changed to an uppercut. An electric shock surged up my arm. Devlin lay down on the green tiles, chilled like a side of beef.

I looked across him at Hendryx. There was no fear in his eyes, only calculation. He backed into a canvas chair and sat down clumsily.

“You’re fairly tough, it seems. Perhaps you used to be a fighter? I’ve owned a few fighters in my time. You might have a future at it, if you were younger.”

“It’s a sucker’s game. So is larceny.”

“Larceny-farceny,” he said surprisingly. “What did you say you do?”

“I’m a private detective.”

“Private, eh?” His mouth curved in a lipless tortoise grin. “You interest me, Mr. Archer. I could find a use for you — a place in my organization.”

“What kind of organization?”

“I’m a builder, a mass-producer of houses. Like most successful entrepreneurs, I make enemies: cranks and bleeding hearts and psychopathic veterans who think the world owes them something. Devlin here isn’t quite the man I thought he was. But you—”

“Forget it. I’m pretty choosey about the people I work for.”

“An idealist, eh? A cleancut young American idealist.” The smile was still on his mouth; it was saturnine. “Well, Mr. Idealist, you’re wasting your time. I know nothing about this picture or anything connected with it. You’re also wasting my time.”

“It seems to be expendable. I think you’re lying, incidentally.”

Hendryx didn’t answer me directly. He called to the maid, “Telephone the gate. Tell Shaw we’re having a little trouble with a guest. Then you can come back and look after this.” He jerked a thumb at muscle-boy, who was showing signs of life.

I said to the maid, “Don’t bother telephoning. I’m leaving.”

She shrugged and looked at Hendryx. He nodded. I followed her out.

“You didn’t stay long,” the cab driver said.

“No. Do you know where Admiral Turner lives?”

“Curiously enough, I do. I should charge extra for the information.”

“Take me there.”

He let me out in a street of big old houses set far back from the sidewalk behind sandstone walls and high eugenia hedges. I paid him off and climbed the sloping walk to the Turner house. It was a weathered frame building, gabled and turreted in the style of the nineties. A gray-haired housekeeper who had survived from the same period answered my knocks.

“The Admiral’s in the garden,” she said. “Will you come out?”

The garden was massed with many-colored begonia, surrounded by a vine-covered wall. The Admiral, in stained and faded khakis, was chopping weeds in a flowerbed with furious concentration. When he saw me he leaned on his hoe and wiped his wet forehead with the back of his hand.

“You should come in out of the sun,” the housekeeper said in a nagging way. “A man of your age—”

“Nonsense. Go away, Mrs. Harris.” She went. “What can I do for you, Mr. — ?”

“Archer. I guess you’ve heard that we found Hugh Western’s body.”

“Sara came home and told me half an hour ago. It’s a foul thing, and completely mystifying. He was to have married—”

His voice broke off. He glanced toward the stone cottage at the rear of the garden. Alice Turner was there at an open window. She wasn’t looking in our direction. She had a tiny paint brush in her hand, and she was working at an easel.

“It’s not as mystifying as it was. I’m starting to put the pieces together, Admiral.”

He turned back to me quickly. His eyes became hard and empty and again they reminded me of gun muzzles.

“Just who are you? What’s your interest in this case?”

“I’m a friend of Hugh Western’s. I stopped off here to see him, and found him dead. I hardly think my interest is out of place.”

“No, of course not,” he growled. “On the other hand, I don’t believe in amateur detectives running around like chickens with their heads cut off, fouling up the authorities.”

“I’m not exactly an amateur. I used to be a cop. And any fouling up there’s been has been done by other people.”

“Are you accusing me?”

“If the shoe fits.”

He met my eyes for a time, trying to master me and the situation. But he was old and bewildered. Slowly the aggressive ego faded from his gaze. He became almost querulous.

“You’ll excuse me. I don’t know what it’s all about. I’ve been rather upset by everything that’s happened.”

“What about your daughter?” Alice was still at the window, working at her picture and paying no attention to our voices. “Doesn’t she know Hugh is dead?”

“Yes. She knows. You mustn’t misunderstand what Alice is doing. There are many ways of enduring grief, and we have a custom in the Turner family of working it out of our system. Hard work is the cure for a great many evils.” He changed the subject, and his tone, abruptly. “And what is your idea of what’s happened?”

“It’s no more than a suspicion right now. I’m not sure who stole your picture, but I think I know where it is.”

“Well?”

“There’s a man named Walter Hendryx who lives in the foothills outside the city. You know him?”

“Slightly.”

“He probably has the Chardin. I’m morally certain he has it, as a matter of fact, though I don’t know how he got it.”

The Admiral tried to smile, and made a dismal failure of it. “You’re not suggesting that Hendryx took it? He’s not exactly mobile, you know.”

“Hilary Todd is very mobile,” I said. “Todd visited Hendryx this morning. I’d be willing to bet even money he had the Chardin.”

“You didn’t see it, however?”

“I didn’t have to. I’ve seen Todd.”

A woman’s voice said from the shadow of the back porch, “The man is right, Johnston.”

Sara Turner came down the path toward us, her high heels spiking the flagstones angrily.

“Hilary did it!” she cried. “He stole the picture and murdered Hugh. I saw him last night at midnight. He had red mountain clay on his clothes.”

“It’s strange you didn’t mention it before,” the Admiral said dryly.

I looked into her face. Her eyes were bloodshot, and the eyelids were swollen with weeping. Her mouth was swollen, too. When she opened it to reply, I could see that the lower lip was split.

“I just remembered.”

I wondered if the blow that split her lip had reminded her.

“And where did you see Hilary Todd last night at midnight?”

“Where?”

In the instant of silence that followed, I heard footsteps behind me. Alice had come out of her cottage. She walked like a sleepwalker dreaming a bad dream, and stopped beside her father without a word to any of us.

Sara’s face had been twisting in search of an answer, and finally found it. “I met him at the Presidio. I dropped in there for a cup of coffee after the show.”

“You are a liar, Sara,” the Admiral said. “The Presidio closes at ten o’clock.”

“It wasn’t the Presidio,” she said rapidly. “It was the bar across the street, the Club Fourteen. I had dinner at the Presidio, and I confused them—”

The Admiral brushed past her without waiting to hear more, and started for the house. Alice went with him. The old man walked unsteadily, leaning on her arm.

“Did you really see Hilary last night?” I asked her.

She stood there for a minute, looking at me. Her face was disorganized, raddled with passion. “Yes, I saw him. I had a date with him at ten o’clock. I waited in his flat for over two hours. He didn’t show up until after midnight. I couldn’t tell him that.” She jerked one shoulder contemptuously toward the house.

“And he had red clay on his clothes?”

“Yes. It took me a while to connect it with Hugh.”

“Are you going to tell the police?”

She smiled a secret and unpleasant smile. “How can I? I’ve got a marriage to go on with, such as it is.”

“You told me.”

“I like you.” Without moving, she gave the impression of leaning toward me. “I’m fed up with all the little stinkers that populate this town!”

I kept it cool and clean, but very nasty. “Were you fed up with Hugh Western, Mrs. Turner?”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard that he dropped you hard a couple of months ago. Somebody dropped him hard last night in his studio.”

“I haven’t been near his studio for weeks.”

“Never did any posing for him?”

Her face seemed to grow smaller and sharper. She laid one narrow taloned hand on my arm. “Can I trust you, Mr. Archer?”

“Not if you murdered Hugh.”

“I didn’t — I swear I didn’t! Hilary did!”

“But you were there last night.”

“No.”

“I think you were. There was a charcoal sketch on the easel, and you posed for it, didn’t you?”

Her nerves were badly strained, but she tried to be coquettish. “How would you know?”

“The way you carry your body. It reminds me of the picture.”

“Do you approve?”

“Listen, Mrs. Turner. You don’t seem to realize that that sketch is evidence, and destroying it is a crime.”

“I didn’t destroy it.”

“Then where did you put it?”

“I haven’t said I took it.”

“But you did.”

“Yes, I did,” she admitted finally. “But it isn’t evidence in this case. I posed for it six months ago, and Hugh had it in his studio. When I heard he was dead this afternoon, I went to get it, just to be sure it wouldn’t turn up in the newspapers. He had it on the easel for some reason, and had ruined it with a beard. I don’t know why.”

“The beard would make sense if your story was changed a little. If you quarreled while Hugh was sketching you last night, and you hit him over the head with a metal fist. You might have drawn the beard yourself, to cover up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If I had anything to cover up I would have destroyed the sketch. Anyway, I can’t draw.”

“Hilary can.”

“Go to hell,” she said between her teeth. “You’re just another stinker like the rest of them.”

She walked emphatically to the house. I followed her into the long, dim hallway. Halfway up the stairs to the second floor she turned and flung down to me, “I hadn’t destroyed it, but I’m going to now.”

There was nothing I could do about that, and I started out. When I passed the door of the living-room, the Admiral called out, “Is that you, Archer? Come here a minute, eh?”

He was sitting with Alice on a semicircular leather lounge, set into a huge bay window at the front of the room. He got up and moved toward me ponderously, his head down like a charging bull’s. His face was a jaundiced yellow, bloodless under the tan.

“You’re entirely wrong about the Chardin,” he said. “Hilary Todd had nothing to do with stealing it. In fact, it wasn’t stolen. I removed it from the gallery myself.”

“You denied that this morning.”

“I do as I please with my own possessions. I’m accountable to no one, certainly not to you.”

“Dr. Silliman might like to know,” I said with irony.

“I’ll tell him in my own good time.”

“Will you tell him why you took it?”

“Certainly. Now, if you’ve made yourself sufficiently obnoxious, I’ll ask you to leave my house.”

“Father.” Alice came up to him and placed a hand on his arm. “Mr. Archer has only been trying to help.”

“And getting nowhere,” I said. “I made the mistake of assuming that some of Hugh’s friends were honest.”

“That’s enough!” he roared. “Get out!”

Alice caught up with me on the veranda. “Don’t go away angry. Father can be terribly childish, but he means well.”

“I don’t get it. He lied this morning, or else he’s lying now.”

“He isn’t lying,” she said earnestly. “He was simply playing a trick on Dr. Silliman and the trustees. It’s what happened to Hugh afterwards that made it seem important.”

“Did you know that he took the picture himself?”

“He told me just now, before you came into the house. I made him tell you.”

“You’d better let Silliman in on the joke,” I said unpleasantly. “He’s probably going crazy.”

“He is,” she said. “I saw him at the gallery this afternoon, and he was tearing his hair. Do you have your car?”

“I came up here in a taxi.”

“I’ll drive you down.”

“Are you sure you feel up to it?”

“It’s better when I’m doing something,” she said.

An old black sedan was standing in the drive beside the house. We got in, and she backed it into the street, then turned downhill toward the center of town.

Watching her face I said, “Of course you realize I don’t believe his story.”

“Father’s, you mean?” She didn’t seem surprised. “I don’t know what to believe, myself.”

“When did he say he took the Chardin?”

“Last night. Hugh was working on the mezzanine. Father slipped away and took the picture out to the car.”

“Didn’t Hugh keep the door locked?”

“Apparently not. Father said not.”

“But what possible reason could he have for stealing his own picture?”

“To prove a point. Father’s been arguing for a long time that it would be easy to steal a picture from the gallery. He’s been trying to get the board of trustees to install a burglar alarm. He’s really hipped on the subject. He wouldn’t lend his Chardin to the gallery until they agreed to insure it.”

“For twenty-five thousand dollars,” I said, half to myself. Twenty-five thousand dollars was motive enough for a man to steal his own picture. And if Hugh Western witnessed the theft, there was motive for murder. “Your father’s made a pretty good story out of it. But where’s the picture now?”

“He didn’t tell me. It’s probably hidden in the house somewhere.”

“I doubt it. It’s more likely somewhere in Walter Hendryx’ house.”

She let out a little gasp. “What makes you say that? Do you know Walter Hendryx?”

“I’ve met him. Do you know him?”

“He’s a horrible man,” she said. “I can’t imagine why you think he has it.”

“It’s pure hunch.”

“Where would he get it? Father wouldn’t dream of selling it to him.”

“Hilary Todd would.”

“Hilary? You think Hilary stole it?”

“I’m going to ask him. Let me off at his shop, will you? I’ll see you at the gallery later.”

The Closed sign was still hanging inside the plate glass, and the front door was locked. I went around to the back of the shop by the alley. The door under the stairs was standing partly open. I went in without knocking.

The living-room was empty. The smell of alcohol rose from the stain on the wall where Sara had smashed her glass. I crossed the passage to the door on the other side. It, too, was partly open. I pushed it wider and went in.

Hilary Todd was sprawled face down on the bed, with an open suitcase crushed under the weight of his body. The silver handle of his ice pick stood up between his shoulder blades in the center of a wet, dark stain. The silver glinted coldly in a ray of light which came through the half-closed Venetian blinds.

I felt for his pulse and couldn’t find it. His head was twisted sideways, and his empty dark eyes stared unblinking at the wall. A slight breeze from the open window at the foot of the bed ruffled the hair along the side of his head.

I burrowed under the heavy body and went through the pockets. In the inside breast pocket of the coat I found what I was looking for: a plain white business envelope, unsealed, containing $15,000 in large bills.

I was standing over the bed with the money in my hand when I heard someone in the hallway. A moment later Mary appeared at the door.

“I saw you come in,” she said. “I thought—” Then she saw the body.

“Someone killed Hilary,” I said quietly.

“Killed Hilary?” She looked at the body on the bed and then at me. I realized that I was holding the money in plain view.

“What are you doing with that?”

I folded the bills and tucked them into my inside pocket. “I’m going to try an experiment. Be a good girl and call the police for me.”

“Where did you get that money?”

“From someone it didn’t belong to. Don’t tell the sheriff about it. Just say that I’ll be back in half an hour.”

“They’ll want to know where you went.”

“And if you don’t know, you won’t be able to tell them. Now do as I say.”

She looked into my face, wondering if she could trust me. Her voice was uncertain. “If you’re sure you’re doing the right thing.”

“Nobody ever is.”

I went out to my car and drove to Foothill Drive. The sun had dipped low over the sea, and the air was turning colder. By the time I reached the iron gates that cut off Walter Hendryx from ordinary mortals, the valley beyond them was in shadow.

The burly man came out of the gatehouse as if I had pressed a button. He recognized me, then pushed his face up to the window of the car. “Beat it, chum. I got orders to keep you away from here.”

I restrained an impulse to push the face away, and tried diplomacy. “I came here to do your boss a favor.”

“That’s not the way he feels. Now blow.”

“Look here.” I brought the wad of bills out of my pocket, and passed them back and forth under his nose. “There’s big money involved.”

His eyes followed the moving bills as if they were hypnotized. “I don’t take bribes,” he said in a hoarse and passionate whisper.

“I’m not offering you one. But you should phone down to Hendryx, before you do anything rash, and tell him there’s money in it.”

“Money for him?” There was a wistful note in his voice. “How much?”

“Fifteen thousand, tell him.”

“Some bonus.” He whistled. “What kind of a house is he building for you, bud, that you should give him an extra fifteen grand?”

I didn’t answer. His question gave me too much to think about. He went back into the gatehouse.

Two minutes later he came out and opened the gates. “Mr. Hendryx’ll see you. But don’t try any funny stuff or you won’t come out on your own power.”

The same maid was waiting at the door. She took me into a big rectangular room with French windows on one side, opening on the terrace. The rest of the walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling — the kind of books that are bought by the set and never read. In front of the fireplace, at the far end, Hendryx was sitting half submerged in an overstuffed armchair, with a blanket over his knees.

He looked up when I entered the room. The firelight danced on his scalp and lit his face with an angry glow. “What’s this? Come here and sit down.”

The maid left silently. I walked the length of the room and sat down in an armchair facing him. “I always bring bad news, Mr. Hendryx. Murder and such things. This time it’s Hilary Todd.”

The turtle-face didn’t change, but his head made a movement of withdrawal into the shawl collar of his robe. “I’m exceedingly sorry to hear it. But my gatekeeper mentioned a matter of money. That interests me more.”

“Good.” I produced the bills and spread them fanwise on my knee. “Do you recognize these?”

“Should I?”

“For a man who’s interested in money, you’re acting very coy.”

“I’m interested in its source.”

“I had an idea that you were the source of this particular money. I have some other ideas. For instance, that Hilary Todd stole the Chardin and sold it to you. One thing I have no idea about is why you would buy a stolen picture and pay for it in cash.”

His false teeth glistened coldly in the firelight. Like the man at the gate, he kept his eyes on the money. “The picture wasn’t stolen. I bought it legally from its rightful owner.”

“I might believe you if you hadn’t denied any knowledge of it this afternoon. I think you knew it was stolen.”

His voice took on a cutting edge. “It was not.” He slipped his blue-veined hand inside his robe and brought out a folded sjieet of paper, which he handed me.

It was a bill of sale for the picture, informal but legal, written in longhand on the stationery of the San Marcos Beach Club, signed by Admiral Johnston Turner, and dated that day.

“Now may I ask you where you got hold of that money?”

“I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Hendryx. I took it from the body of Hilary Todd, when he had no further use for it.”

“That’s a criminal act, I believe.”

My brain was racing, trying to organize a mass of contradictory facts. “I have a notion that you’re not going to talk to anyone about it.”

He shrugged. “You seem to be full of notions.”

“I have another. Whether or not you’re grateful to me for bringing you this money, I think you should be.”

“Have you any reason-for saying that?” He had shifted his eyes from the money on my knee to my face.

“You’re in the building business, Mr. Hendryx?”

“Yes.” His voice was flat.

“I don’t know exactly how you got this money. My guess is that you gouged it out of home buyers, by demanding a cash bonus in addition to the appraised value of the houses you’ve been selling to veterans.”

“That’s a pretty comprehensive piece of guesswork, isn’t it?”

“I don’t expect you to admit it. On the other hand, you probably wouldn’t want this money traced to you. The fact that you haven’t banked it is an indication of that. That’s why Todd could count on you to keep this picture deal quiet. And that’s why you should be grateful to me.”

The turtle-eyes stared into mine, and admitted nothing. “If I were grateful, what form do you suggest my gratitude should take?”

“I want the picture. I’ve sort of set my heart on it.”

“Keep the money instead.”

“This money is no good to me. Dirty money never is.”

He threw the blanket off and levered himself out of the chair. “You’re somewhat more honest than I’d supposed. You’re offering, then, to buy the picture back from me with that money?”

“Exactly.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“The money goes to the Intelligence Unit of the Internal Revenue Bureau.”

There was silence for a while, broken by the fire hissing and sputtering in an irritable undertone.

“Very well,” he said at length. “Give me the money.”

“Give me the picture.”

He waded across the heavy rug, moving his feet a few inches at a time, and pressed a corner of one of the bookcases. It swung open like a door. Behind it was the face of a large wall safe. I waited uncomfortably while he twirled the double dials.

A minute later he shuffled back to me with the picture in his hands. The boy in the blue waistcoat was there in the frame, still watching the apple, which looked good enough to eat after more than two hundred years.

Hendryx’ withered face had settled into a kind of malevolent resignation. “You realize that this is no better than blackmail.”

“On the contrary, I’m saving you from the consequences of your own poor judgment. You shouldn’t do business with thieves and murderers.”

“You still insist the picture was stolen?”

“I think it was. You probably know it was. Will you answer one question?”

“Perhaps.”

“When Hilary Todd approached you about buying this picture, did he claim to represent Admiral Turner?”

“Of course. You have the bill of sale in your hand. It’s signed by the Admiral.”

“I see that, but I don’t know his signature.”

“I do. Now, if you have no further questions, may I have my money?”

“Just one more: who killed Hugh Western?”

“I don’t know,” he said heavily.

He held out his brown hand with the palm upward. I gave him the sheaf of bills.

“And the bill of sale, if you please.”

“It wasn’t part of the bargain.”

“It has to be.”

“I suppose you’re right.” I handed it to him.

“Please don’t come back a third time,” he said as he rang for the maid. “I find your visits tiring and annoying.”

“I won’t come back,” I said. I didn’t need to.

In the early evening traffic lull I made good time back to the center of town. I drove automatically, thinking of other things: the dead man on the mountain, the other dead man in the bedroom, the twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of canvas and pigment on the seat beside me. Hendryx had answered one question, but he had raised ten more. The questions and the facts that failed to answer them swarmed in my head like bees.

I parked in the alley beside the art gallery and got out of the car with the Chardin under my arm. There was talk and laughter and the tiny din of cutlery in the restaurant patio beyond the hedge. On the other side of the alley a light was shining behind the barred window of Silliman’s office. I reached up between the bars and tapped on the window. I couldn’t see beyond the closed Venetian blinds.

Someone opened the casement. It was Alice, her blonde head aureoled against the light. “Who is it?” she said in a frightened whisper.

“Archer.” I had a sudden, rather theatrical impulse. I held up the Chardin and passed it to her edgewise between the bars. She took it from my hands and let out a little yelp of surprise.

“It was where I thought it would be,” I said.

Silliman appeared at her shoulder, squeaking, “What is it? What is it?”

My brain was doing a double take on the action I’d just performed. I had returned the Chardin to the gallery without using the door! It could have been stolen the same way, by Hilary Todd or anyone else who had access to the building. No human being could pass through the bars — but a picture could!

Silliman’s head came out the window like ^a gray mop being shaken. “Where on earth did you find it?”

I had no story ready, so I said nothing.

A gentle hand touched my arm and stayed, like a bird alighting. It was Mary.

“I’ve been watching for you,” she said. “The sheriff’s in Hilary’s shop, and he’s raving mad. He said he’s going to put you in jail, as a material witness.”

“You didn’t tell him about the money?” I said in an undertone.

“No. Did you really get the picture?”

“Come inside and see.”

As we turned the corner of the building, a car left the curb in front of it, and started up the street with a roar. It was Admiral Turner’s black sedan.

“It looks like Alice driving,” Mary said.

“She’s gone to tell her father, probably.”

I made a sudden decision, and headed back to my car.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to see the Admiral’s reaction to the news.”

She followed me to the car. “Take me.”

“You’d better stay here. There’s no telling what might happen.”

I tried to shut the door, but she held on to it. “You’re always running off and leaving me to make your explanations.”

“All right, get in. I don’t have time to argue.”

I drove straight up the alley and across the parking lot to Rubio Street. There was a uniformed policeman standing at the back door of Hilary’s shop, but he didn’t try to stop us.

“What did the police have to say about Hilary?” I asked her.

“Not much. The ice pick had been wiped clean of fingerprints, and they had no idea who did it.”

I went through a yellow light and left a chorus of indignant honkings at the intersection behind me.

“You said you didn’t know what would happen when you got there. Do you think the Admiral—?” She left the sentence unfinished.

“I don’t know. I have a feeling we soon will, though.”

Finally I asked, “Is this the street?”

“Yes.”

My tires shrieked on the corner, and again in front of the house. She was out of the car before I was.

“Stay back,” I told her. “This may be dangerous.”

She let me go up the walk ahead of her. The black sedan was in the drive with the headlights burning and the left front door hanging open. The front door of the house was closed but there was a light behind it. I went in without knocking.

Sara came out of the living-room. All day her face had been going to pieces, and now it was old and slack and ugly. Her bright hair was ragged at the edges, and her voice was ragged. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I want to see the Admiral. Where is he?”

“How should I know? I can’t keep track of any of my men.” She took a step toward me, staggered, and almost fell.

Mary took hold of her and eased her into a chair. Her head leaned limply against the wall, and her mouth hung open. The lipstick on her mouth was like a rim of cracked dry blood.

“They must be here.”

The single shot that we heard then was an exclamation point at the end of my sentence. It came from somewhere back of the house, muffled by walls and distance.

I went through and into the garden. There were lights in the gardener’s cottage, and a man’s shadow moved across the window. I ran up the path to the cottage’s open door, and froze there.

Admiral Turner was facing me with a gun in his hand. It was a heavy-caliber automatic, the kind the Navy issued. From its round, questioning mouth a wisp of blue smoke trailed. Alice lay face down on the carpeted floor between us.

I looked into the mouth of the gun, then into Turner’s granite face. “You killed her.”

But Alice was the one who answered. “Go away,” she said. The words came out in a rush of sobbing that racked her prostrate body.

“This is a private matter, Archer.” The gun stirred slightly in the Admiral’s hand. I could feel its pressure across the width of the room. “Do as she says.”

“I heard a shot. Murder is a public matter.”

“There has been no murder, as you can see.”

“You don’t remember well.”

“I have nothing to do with that,” he said. “I was cleaning my gun, and forgot that it was loaded.”

“So Alice lay down and cried? You’ll have to do better than that, Admiral.”

“Her nerves are shaken. But I assure you that mine are not.” He took three slow steps toward me, and paused by the girl on the floor. The gun was very steady in his hand. “Now go, or I’ll have to use this.”

The pressure of the gun was increasing. I put my hands on the door frame and held myself still. “You seem to be sure it’s loaded now,” I said.

Between my words I heard the faint, harsh whispering of shifting gravel on the garden path behind me. I spoke up loudly, to drown out the sound.

“Admiral, you say that you had nothing to do with the murder. Then why did Todd come to the beach club this morning? Why did you change your story about the Chardin?”

He looked down at his daughter as if she could answer the questions. She made no sound, but her shoulders were shaking with internal sobbing.

As I watched the two of them, father and daughter, the pattern of the day finally came into focus. At its center was the muzzle of the Admiral’s gun, the round blue mouth of death.

I said, very carefully, to gain time, “I can guess what Todd said to you this morning. Do you want me to dub in the dialogue?”

He glanced up sharply, and the gun glanced up. There were no more sounds in the garden. If Mary was as quick as I thought, she’d be at the telephone.

“He told you he’d stolen your picture and had a buyer for it. But Hendryx was cautious. Todd needed proof that he had a right to sell it. You gave him the proof. And when Todd completed the transaction, you let him keep the money.”

“Nonsense! Bloody nonsense.” But he was a poor actor, and a worse liar.

“I’ve seen the bill of sale, Admiral. The only question left is why you gave it to Todd.”

His lips moved as if he was going to speak. No words came out.

“And I’ll answer that one, too. Todd knew who killed Hugh Western. So did you. You had to keep him quiet, even if it meant conniving at the theft of your own picture.”

“I connived at nothing.” His voice was losing its strength, but his gun was as potent as ever.

“Alice did,” I said. “She helped Todd steal it this morning. She passed it out the window to him when Silliman and I were on the mezzanine. Which is one of the things he told you at the beach club, isn’t it?”

“Todd has been feeding you lies. Unless you give me your word that you won’t repeat those lies, not to anyone, I’m going to have to shoot you.”

His hand contracted, squeezing off the automatic’s safety. The tiny noise it made seemed very significant in the silence. It echoed from the walls.

“Todd will soon be feeding worms,” I said. “He’s dead, Admiral.”

“Dead?” His voice had sunk to an old man’s quaver, rustling in his throat.

“Stabbed with an ice pick in his apartment.”

“When?”

“This afternoon. Do you still see any point in trying to shoot me?”

“You’re lying, Archer.”

“No. There’s been a second murder — Todd’s.”

He looked down at the girl at his feet. His eyes were bewildered. There was danger in his pain and confusion. I was the source of his pain, and he might strike out blindly at me. I watched the gun in his hand, waiting for a chance to move in on it. My arms were rigid, braced against the door frame.

Mary Western ducked under my left arm and stepped into the room in front of me. She had no weapon, except her courage.

“He’s telling the truth,” she said. “Hilary Todd was stabbed to death today.”

“Put down the gun,” I said. “There’s nothing left to save. You thought you were protecting an unfortunate girl. She’s turned out to be a double murderess.”

He was watching the girl on the floor. “If this is true, Alice, I wash my hands of you.”

No sound came from her. Her face was hidden by her yellow sheaf of hair. The old man groaned. The gun sagged in his hand. I moved, pushing Mary to one side, and snatched it away from him. He didn’t resist, but my forehead was suddenly streaming with sweat.

“You were probably next on her list,” I said.

“No.”

The muffled word came from his daughter. She began to get up, rising laboriously from her hands and knees like a hurt fighter. She flung her hair back. Her face had hardly changed. It was as lovely as ever, on the surface, but empty of meaning — like a doll’s plastic face.

“I was next on my list,” she said dully. “I tried to shoot myself when I realized you knew about me. Father stopped me.”

“I didn’t know about you until now.”

“You did. You must have. When you were talking to father in the garden, you meant me to hear it all — everything you said about Hilary.”

“Did I?”

The Admiral said with a kind of awe, “You killed him, Alice. Why did you want his blood on your hands? Why?” His own hand paused in mid-air. He looked at her as if he had fathered a strange and evil thing.

She bowed her head in silence. I answered for her. “She’d stolen the Chardin for Todd and met his conditions. But then she saw that he couldn’t get away, or if he did he’d be brought back, and questioned. She couldn’t be sure he’d keep quiet about Hugh. This afternoon she made sure. The second murder always comes easier.”

“No!” She shook her blonde head violently. “I didn’t murder Hugh. I hit him with something, but I didn’t intend to kill him. He struck me first — he struck me, and then I hit him back.”

“With a deadly weapon, a metal fist. You hit at him twice with it. The second blow didn’t miss.”

“But I didn’t mean to kill him. Hilary knew I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“How would he know? Was he there?”

“He was downstairs in his flat. When he heard Hugh fall, he came up. Hugh was still alive. He died in Hilary’s car, when we were starting for the hospital. Hilary said he’d help me cover up. He took that horrible fist and threw it into the sea.

“I hardly knew what I was doing by that time. Hilary did it all. He put the body in Hugh’s car and drove it up the mountain. I followed in his car and brought him back. On the way back he told me why he was helping me. He needed money. He knew we had no money, but he had a chance to sell the Chardin. I took it for him this morning. I had to! Everything I did, I did because I had to.”

She looked from me to her father. He averted his face from her.

“You didn’t have to smash Hugh’s skull,” I said. “Why did you do that?”

Her doll’s eyes rolled in her head, then came back to me, glinting with a cold and deathly coquetry. “If I tell you, will you do one thing for me? One favor? Give me father’s gun for just a second?”

“And let you kill us all?”

“Only myself,” she said. “Just leave one shell in it.”

“Don’t give it to her,” the Admiral said. “She’s done enough to disgrace us.”

“I have no intention of giving it to her. And I don’t have to be told why she killed Hugh. While she was waiting in his studio last night, she found a sketch of his. It was an old sketch, but she didn’t know that. She’d never seen it before, for obvious reasons.”

“What kind of sketch?”

“A portrait of a nude woman. She tacked it up on the easel and decorated it with a beard. When Hugh came home he saw what she’d done. He didn’t like to have his pictures spoiled, and he probably slapped her face.”

“He hit me with his fist,” Alice said. “I killed him in self-defense.”

“That may be the way you’ve rationalized it. Actually, you killed him out of jealousy.”

She laughed. It was a cruel sound, like vital tissue being ruptured. “Jealousy of her?”

“The same jealousy that made you ruin the sketch.”

Her eyes widened, but they were blind, looking into herself. “Jealousy? I don’t know. I felt so lonely, so all alone in the world. I had nobody to love me — not since my mother died.”

“It isn’t true, Alice. You had me.” The Admiral’s tentative hand came out and paused again in the air, as though there was an invisible wall between them.

“I never had you. I hardly saw you. Then Sara took you. I had no one — no one until Hugh. I thought at last that I had someone to love me, someone I could count on, someone—”

Her voice broke off. The Admiral looked everywhere but at his daughter. The room was like a cubicle in hell where lost souls suffered under the silent treatment. The silence was finally broken by the sound of a distant siren. It rose and expanded until its lamentation filled the night.

Alice was crying, with her face uncovered. Mary Western came forward and put her arm around her. “Don’t cry.” Her voice was warm. Her face had a grave beauty.

“You hate me, too.”

“No. I’m sorry for you, Alice. Sorrier than I am for Hugh.”

The Admiral touched my arm. “Who was the woman in the sketch?” he said in a trembling voice.

I looked into his tired old face and decided that he had suffered enough.

“I don’t know,” I said.

But I could see the knowledge in his eyes.