The Blue Hammer (11 page)

“I honestly can’t say. I don’t believe she had a definite surname. She lived with various men and took their names.” Her eyes came up abruptly. “No, my husband wasn’t one of those men.”

“But he must have known her if he painted the picture.”

“He didn’t paint this picture. I told you that.”

“Who did, Mrs. Chantry?”

“I have no idea.”

Impatience had been rising in her voice. She glanced toward the door. Rico was leaning there with his hand in the pocket of his robe; and something larger than a hand, shaped like a gun. He moved toward me.

I said, “Call off your dog, Mrs. Chantry. Unless you want this written up in the paper.”

She gave Betty Jo an icy look, which Betty Jo managed to return. But she said, “Go away, Rico. I can take care of this.”

Rico moved reluctantly into the hallway.

I said to Mrs. Chantry, “How do you know your husband didn’t paint it?”

“I would have known if he had. I know all his paintings.”

“Does that mean you still keep in touch with him?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then how do you know he didn’t paint this some time in the last twenty-five years?”

The question stopped her for a moment. Then she said, “The woman in the painting is too young. She was older than this when I saw her in Santa Fe in 1940. She’d be a really old woman now, if she’s alive at all.”

“But your husband could have painted her from memory, any time up to the present. If
he’s
alive.”

“I see what you mean,” she said in a small flat voice. “But I still don’t think he painted it.”

“Paul Grimes thought he did.”

“Because it paid him to think so.”

“Did it, though? I think this picture got him killed. He knew the model who sat for it, and she told him your husband had painted it. For some reason the knowledge was dangerous. Dangerous to Paul Grimes, obviously, and dangerous to whoever killed Grimes.”

“Are you accusing my husband?”

“No. I have nothing to go on. I don’t even know if your husband is alive. Do you know, Mrs. Chantry?”

She took a deep breath, her breasts rising like fists under her robe. “I haven’t heard from him since the day he left. I warn you, though, Mr. Archer, his memory is all I live for. Whether Richard is dead or alive, I’ll fight for his reputation. And I’m not the only one in this city who will fight you. Please get out of my house now.”

She included Betty Jo in the invitation. Rico opened the front door and slammed it behind us.

Betty Jo was shaken. She crept into my car like a refugee from trouble.

I said, “Was Mrs. Chantry ever an actress?”

“An amateur one, I think. Why?”

“She reads her lines like one.”

The girl shook her head. “No. I think Francine meant what she said. Chantry and his work are all she cares about. And I feel small about doing what I just did. We hurt her and made her angry.”

“Are you afraid of her?”

“No, but I thought we were friends.” She added as we drove away from the house, “Maybe I am a little afraid of her. But also I’m sorry that we hurt her.”

“She was hurt long ago.”

“Yes. I know what you mean.”

I meant Rico.

I returned to my motel. Betty Jo came in with me to compare notes. We compared not only notes.

The night was sweet and short. Dawn slipped in like something cool and young and almost forgotten.

^chapter
15

When I woke up in the morning, she was gone. A pang that resembled hunger went through me a little higher than my stomach. The phone beside the bed rang.

“This is Betty Jo.”

“You sound very cheerful,” I said. “Painfully cheerful.”

“You had that effect on me. Also my editor wants me to do a feature on the Chantry case. He says he’ll give me all the time I need. The only drawback is that they may not print it.”

“Why not?”

“Mrs. Chantry talked to Mr. Brailsford first thing this morning. He owns the paper. So they’re going to have an editorial conference in Mr. Brailsford’s office. In the meantime, I’m supposed to go on digging. Do you have any suggestions?”

“You might try the art museum. Take along your photograph of the painting. There may be somebody in the museum who can identify the model who sat for it. And if we’re very lucky the model may be able to tell us who painted it.”

“That’s exactly what I was planning to do.”

“Good for you.”

She lowered her voice. “Lew?”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing. I mean, do you mind about my thinking of it first? I mean, you’re older than I am, and maybe not quite so liberated.”

I said, “Cheer up. I’ll probably see you at the art museum. You’ll find me among the old masters.”

“I did hurt your feelings, didn’t I?”

“On the contrary. I never felt better. I’m going to hang up now before you hurt my feelings.”

She laughed and hung up on me. I shaved and had a shower and went out for breakfast. An early wind was blowing on the water. A few small craft were out in it. But most of the boats in the harbor danced in place at their moorings, naked-masted.

I found a clean-looking restaurant and took a seat by the front window so that I could watch the boats. They gave me the empathetic feeling that I was in motion, too, scudding along under complex pressures and even more complex controls toward the open sea.

I had ham and eggs with potatoes and toast and coffee. Then I drove uptown and parked in the lot behind the art museum.

Betty Jo met me at the front entrance.

I said, “We seem to be synchronized, Betty Jo.”

“Yes.” But she didn’t sound too happy about it.

“What’s the matter?”

“You just said it. My name. I hate my name.”

“Why?”

“It’s a silly name. A double name always sounds like a child’s name. It’s immature. I don’t like either of my names separately, either. Betty is such a plain name, and Jo sounds like a boy. But I suppose I have to settle for one of them. Unless you can suggest something better.”

“How about Lew?”

She didn’t smile. “You’re making fun of me. This is serious.”

She was a serious girl, and more delicate in her feelings than I’d imagined. It didn’t make me sorry that I had slept with her, but it lent a certain weight to the event. I hoped she wasn’t getting ready to fall in love, especially not with me. But I kissed her, lightly, philanthropically.

A young man had appeared at the entrance to the classical sculpture exhibit. He had a wavy blond head and a tapered torso. He was carrying the colored photograph of the memory painting.

“Betty Jo?”

“I’ve changed my name to Betty,” she said. “Please just call me Betty.”

“Okay, Betty.” The young man’s voice was precise and rather thin. “What I was going to say is, I matched up your picture with one of the Lashman pictures in the basement.”

“That’s marvelous, Ralph. You’re a genius.” She took his hand and shook it wildly. “By the way, this is Mr. Archer.”

“The non-genius,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

Ralph flushed. “Actually it was terribly easy to do. The Lashman painting was sitting out on one of the worktables, propped up against the wall. You’d almost think it was looking for me instead of I for it. It virtually leaped right out at me.”

Betty turned to me. “Ralph has found another painting of that same blond model. One by a different painter.”

“So I gathered. May I see it?”

“You certainly may,” Ralph said. “The beauty of it is that Simon Lashman should be able to tell you who she is.”

“Is he in town?”

“No. He lives in Tucson. We should have a record of his address. We’ve bought several of his paintings over the years.”

“Right now, I’d rather look at the one in the basement.”

Ralph unlocked a door. The three of us went downstairs and along a windowless corridor that reminded me of jails I had known. The workroom where Ralph took me was also windowless, but whitely lit by fluorescent tubes in the ceiling.

The picture on the table was a full-length nude. The woman looked much older than she had in the Biemeyer painting. There were marks of pain at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her breasts were larger, and they drooped a little. Her entire body was less confident.

Betty looked from the sorrowful painted face to mine, almost as if she were jealous of the woman.

She said to Ralph, “How long ago was this painted?”

“Over twenty years. I checked the file. Lashman called it
Penelope,
by the way.”

“She’d be really old now,” Betty said to me. “She’s old enough in the picture.”

“I’m no spring chicken myself,” I said.

She flushed and looked away as if I’d rebuffed her.

I said to Ralph, “Why would the picture be sitting out on the table like this? It isn’t where it’s usually kept, is it?”

“Of course not. One of the staff must have set it out.”

“This morning?”

“That I doubt. There wasn’t anyone down here this morning before me. I had to unlock the door.”

“Who was down here yesterday?”

“Several people, at least half a dozen. We’re preparing a show.”

“Including this picture?”

“No. It’s a show of Southern California landscapes.”

“Was Fred Johnson down here yesterday?”

“As a matter of fact, he was. He put in quite a lot of time sorting through the paintings in the storage room.”

“Did he tell you what he was after?”

“Not exactly. He said he was looking for something.”

“He was looking for this,” Betty said abruptly.

She had forgotten her jealousy of the painted woman, if that is what it had been. Excitement colored her cheekbones. Her eyes were bright.

“Fred is probably on his way to Tucson.” She clenched her fists and shook them in the air like an excited child. “Now if I could get Mr. Brailsford to pay my travel expenses—”

I was thinking the same thing about Mr. Biemeyer. But before I approached Biemeyer I decided to try to make a phone call to the painter Lashman.

Ralph got me the painter’s number and address out of the file, and left me alone at the desk in his own office.

I dialed Lashman’s house in Tucson direct.

A hoarse reluctant voice answered, “Simon Lashman speaking.”

“This is Lew Archer calling from the Santa Teresa Art Museum. I’m investigating the theft of a picture. I understand you painted the picture of Penelope in the museum.”

There was a silence. Then Lashman’s voice creaked like an old door opening: “That was a long time ago. I’m painting better now. Don’t tell me someone thought that picture was worth stealing.”

“It hasn’t been stolen, Mr. Lashman. Whoever painted the stolen picture used the same model as you used for
Penelope”

“Mildred Mead? Is she still alive and kicking?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t seen her in some years. She’d be an old woman by now. We’re all getting older.” His voice was becoming fainter. “She may be dead.”

“I hope not. She was a beautiful woman.”

“I used to think that Mildred was the most beautiful woman in the Southwest.” His voice had become stronger, as if the thought of her beauty had stimulated him. “Who painted the picture you’re talking about?”

“It’s been attributed to Richard Chantry.”

“Really?”

“The attribution isn’t certain.”

“I’m not surprised. I never heard that he used Mildred as a model.” Lashman was silent for a moment. “Can you describe the picture to me?”

“It’s a very simple nude in plain colors. Someone said it showed the influence of Indian painting.”

“A lot of Chantry’s stuff did, in his Arizona period. But none of it is particularly good. Is this one any good?”

“I don’t know. It seems to be causing a lot of excitement.”

“Does it belong to the Santa Teresa museum?”

“No. It was bought by a man named Biemeyer.”

“The copper magnate?”

“That’s correct. I’m investigating the theft for Biemeyer.”

“To hell with you, then,” Lashman said, and hung up.

I dialed his number again. He said, “Who is this?”

“Archer. Please hold on. There’s more involved than the theft of a picture here. A man named Paul Grimes was murdered in Santa Teresa last night. Grimes was the dealer who
sold the picture to Biemeyer. The sale and the murder are almost certainly connected.”

Lashman was silent again. Finally he said, “Who stole the picture?”

“An art student named Fred Johnson. I think he may be on his way to Tucson with it now. And he may turn up on your doorstep.”

“Why me?”

“He wants to find Mildred and see who painted her. He seems to be obsessed with the painting. In fact, he may be off his rocker entirely, and he has a young girl traveling with him.” I deliberately omitted the fact that she was Biemeyer’s daughter.

“Anything else?”

“That’s the gist of it.”

“Good,” he said. “I am seventy-five years old. I’m painting my two-hundred-and-fourteenth picture. If I stopped to attend to other people’s problems, I’d never get it finished. So I am going to hang up on you again, Mr. whatever-your-name-is.”

“Archer,” I said. “Lew Archer.
L-E-W A-R-C-H-E-R
. You can always get my number from Los Angeles information.”

Lashman

^chapter
16

The morning wind had died down. The air was clear and sparkling. Like a flashing ornament suspended from an infinitely high ceiling, the red-tailed hawk swung over the Biemeyer house.

Jack and Ruth Biemeyer both came out to meet me. They
were rather conservatively dressed, like people on their way to a funeral, and they looked as if the funeral might be their own.

The woman reached me first. She had dark circles under her eyes, which she hadn’t quite succeeded in covering with makeup.

“Is there any word about Doris?”

“I think she left town with Fred Johnson last night.”