The Blue Hammer

VI

I was beginning to agree with her. I left her and walked down the stairs and out to my car. For over an hour, while the afternoon shadows of the buildings lengthened across me, I sat and watched the main entrance of the Sherbourne.

There was a natureburger place in a geodesic dome up the block, and now and then the uncertain wind brought me the smell of food. Eventually I went and had a nature-burger. The atmosphere in the place was dim and inert. The bearded young customers made me think of early cave men waiting for the ice age to end.

I was back in my car when Fred Johnson finally came. He parked his blue Ford directly behind me and looked up and down the street. He went into the Sherbourne and took the elevator up. I took the stairs, fast. We met in the third-floor hallway. He was wearing a green suit and a wide yellow tie.

He tried to retreat into the elevator, but its door closed in his face and it started down. He turned to face me. He was pale and wide-eyed.

"What do you want?"

"The picture you took from the Biemeyers."

"What picture?"

"You know what picture. The Chantry."

"I didn't take it."

"Maybe not. But it came into your hands."

He looked past me down the hall toward the girl's room. "Did Doris tell you that?"

"We could leave Doris out of this. She's in enough trouble now, with her parents and with herself."

He nodded as if he understood and agreed. But his eyes had a separate life of their own, and were searching for a way out. He looked to me like one of those tired boys who go from youth to middle age without passing through manhood.

"Who are you, anyway?"

"I'm a private detective." I told him my name. "The Biemeyers hired me to reclaim their picture. Where is it, Fred?"

"I don't know."

He wagged his head despondently. As if I had taken hold of his head and squeezed it with my hands, clear drops of sweat stood out on his forehead.

"What happened to it, Fred?"

"I took it home, I admit that. I had no intention of stealing it. I only wanted to study it."

"When did you take it home?"

"Yesterday."

"Where is it now?"

"I don't know. Honestly. Somebody must have stolen it from my room."

"From the house on Olive Street?"

"Yes, sir. Somebody broke into the house and stole it while I was sleeping. It was there when I went to bed and when I woke up it was gone."

"You must be a heavy sleeper."

"I guess I am."

"Or a heavy liar."

His slender body was shaken by a flurry of shame or anger. I thought he was going to take a swing at me, and I set myself for that. But he made a dash for the stairs. I was too slow to head him off. By the time I got down to the street, he was driving away in his old blue Ford.

I bought a natureburger in a paper bag and took the elevator back up to the third floor. Doris let me into her apartment, looking disappointed that it was me.

I handed her the sandwich. "Here's something to eat."

"I'm not hungry. Fred promised to bring me something, anyway."

"You better eat that. Fred may not be coming today."

"But he said he would."

"He may be in trouble, Doris, about that picture." Her hand closed, squeezing the sandwich in the bag. "Are my parents trying to get him?"

"I wouldn't put it that strongly."

"You don't know my parents. They'll make him lose his job at the museum. He'll never become a college graduate. And all because he tried to do them a favor."

"I don't quite follow that."

She nodded her head emphatically. "He was trying to authenticate their painting. He wanted to examine the paint for age. If it was fresh paint, it would probably mean that it wasn't genuine."

"Wasn't a genuine Chantry?"

"That's correct. Fred thought when he first looked at it that it wasn't genuine. At least he wasn't sure. And he doesn't trust the man my parents bought it from."

"Grimes?"

"That's right. Fred said he has a bad reputation in art circles."

I wondered what kind of a reputation Fred was going to have, now that the picture had been stolen. But there was no use worrying the girl about it. The meaning of her face was still as diffuse as a cloud. I left her with her dilapidated sandwich and drove back down along the freeway to the lower town.

The door of Paul Grimes's shop was locked. I knocked and got no answer. I rattled the knob and raised my voice. No answer. Peering into the dim interior, I could see nothing but emptiness and shadows.

I went into the liquor store and asked the black man if he had seen Paola.

"She was out in front an hour or so ago, loading some pictures into her van. As a matter of fact, I helped her."

"What kind of pictures?"

"Framed pictures. Weird junk, gobs of color. I like a picture to look like something real. No wonder they couldn't sell 'em."

"How do you know they couldn't sell 'em?"

"It stands to reason. She said they were giving up on the shop."

"Was Paul Grimes with her-the man with the beard?"

"Nope, he didn't show. I haven't seen him since I saw you."

"Did Paola say where she was going?"

"I didn't ask. She took off in the direction of Montevista." He pointed southwest with his thumb. "What kind of a van is she driving?"

"Old yellow Volkswagen. Is she in some kind of trouble?"

"No. I wanted to talk to her about a picture."

"To buy?"

"Maybe."

He looked at me incredulously, "you like that kind of stuff?"

"Sometimes."

"Too bad. If they knew they had a buyer, they might of stayed in business to accommodate you."

"They might. Will you sell me two half-pints of Tennessee whisky?"

"Why not a whole pint? It's cheaper that way."

"Two half-pints are better."