The Blue Hammer (7 page)

“The invitations went out early last week.”

“You admit that you sent him one.”

“I may have. I probably did. What I said to you this afternoon about Paul wasn’t intended for the record. I confess he gets on my nerves.”

“He won’t any more.”

“I know that. I’m sorry. I’m sorry he’s been killed.” She hung her pretty gray head. “And I did send him that invitation. I was hoping for a reconciliation. We hadn’t been friends for some time. I thought he might respond to a show of warmth on my part.”

She looked at me from under the wings of her hair. Her eyes were cold and watchful. I didn’t believe what she was telling me, and it must have showed.

She said with renewed insistence, “I hate to lose friends, particularly friends of my husband’s. There are fewer and fewer survivors of the Arizona days, and Paul was one of them. He was with us when Richard made his first great breakthrough. Paul really made it possible, you know. But he never succeeded in making his own breakthrough.”

“Were there hard feelings between them?”

“Between my husband and Paul? Certainly not. Paul was one of Richard’s teachers. He took great pride in Richard’s accomplishment.”

“How did your husband feel about Paul?”

“He was grateful to him. They were always good friends, as long as Richard was with us.” She gave me a long and doubting look. “I don’t know where this is leading.”

“Neither do I, Mrs. Chantry.”

“Then what’s the purpose of it? You’re wasting my time and your own.”

“I don’t think so. Tell me, is your husband still alive?”

She shook her head. “I can’t answer that. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”

“How long is it since you’ve seen him?”

“He left in the summer of 1950. I haven’t seen him since then.”

“Were there indications that something had happened to him?”

“On the contrary. He wrote me a wonderful letter. If you’d like to see it—”

“I’ve seen it. As far as you know, then, he’s still alive.”

“I hope and pray he is. I believe he is.”

“Have you heard from him since he took off?”

“Never.”

“Do you expect to?”

“I don’t know.” She turned her head to one side, the cords of her white neck taut. “This is painful for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“I’m trying to find out if there’s any possibility that your husband killed Paul Grimes.”

“That’s an absurd idea. Absurd and obscene.”

“Grimes didn’t seem to think so. He spoke Chantry’s name before he died.”

She didn’t quite faint, but she seemed to come close to it. She turned white under her makeup, and might have fallen. I held her by the upper arms. Her flesh was as smooth as marble, and almost as cold.

Rico opened the door and shouldered his way in. I realized how big he was. The small room hardly contained him.

“What goes on?”

“Nothing,” the woman said. “Please go away, Rico.”

“Is he bothering you?”

“No, he’s not. But I want both of you to go away. Please.”

“You heard her,” Rico said to me.

“So did you. Mrs. Chantry and I have something to discuss.” I turned to her. “Don’t you want to know what Grimes said?”

“I suppose I have to. Rico, do you mind leaving us alone now? It’s perfectly all right.”

It wasn’t all right with Rico. He gave me a black scowl that at the same time managed to look hurt, like the scowl of a little boy who has been told to stand in the corner. He was a big good-looking man, if you liked the dark florid type. I couldn’t help wondering if Mrs. Chantry did.

“Please, Rico.” She sounded like the mistress of a barely controllable watchdog or a jealous stud.

The big man moved sideways out of the room. I closed the door behind him.

Mrs. Chantry turned to me. “Rico’s been with me a long time. He was devoted to my husband. When Richard left, he transferred his allegiance to me.”

“Of course,” I said.

She colored faintly, but didn’t pursue the subject. “You were going to tell me what Paul Grimes said to you before he died.”

“So I was. He thought I was your husband, apparently. He said: ‘Chantry? Leave me alone.’ Later he said: ‘I know you, Chantry, you bastard.’ It naturally gave me the idea that it may have been your husband who beat him to death.”

She dropped her hands from her face, which looked pale and sick. “That’s impossible. Richard was a gentle person. Paul Grimes was his good friend.”

“Do I resemble your husband?”

“No. Richard was much younger—” She caught herself. “But of course he’d be a great deal older now, wouldn’t he?”

“We all are. Twenty-five years older.”

“Yes.” She bowed her head as if she suddenly felt the weight of the years. “But Richard didn’t look at all like you. Perhaps there’s some similarity of voices.”

“But Grimes called me Chantry before I spoke. I never did say anything to him directly.”

“What does that prove? Please go away now, won’t you? This has been very hard. And I have to go out there again.”

She went back into the dining room. After a minute or two I followed her. She and Rico were standing by the candlelit table with their heads close together, talking in intimate low tones.

I felt like an intruder and moved over to the windows. Through them I could see the harbor in the distance. Its masts and cordage resembled a bleached winter grove stripped of leaves and gauntly beautiful. The candle flames reflected in the windows seemed to flicker like St. Elmo’s fire around the distant masts.

^chapter
10

I went out to the big front room. The art expert Arthur Planter was standing with his back to the room, in front of one of the paintings on the wall. When I spoke to him, he didn’t turn or answer me, but his tall narrow body stiffened a little.

I repeated his name. “Mr. Planter?”

He turned unwillingly from the picture, which was a head-and-shoulders portrait of a man. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I’m a private detective—”

“Really?” The pale narrow eyes in his thin face were looking at me without interest.

“Did you know Paul Grimes?”

“I wouldn’t say I
know
him. I’ve done some business with him, a very little.” He pursed his lips as if the memory had a bitter taste.

“You won’t do any more,” I said, hoping to shock him into communication. “He was murdered earlier this evening.”

“Am I a suspect?” His voice was dry and bored.

“Hardly. Some paintings were found in his car. Would you be willing to look at one of them?”

“With what end in view?”

“Identification, maybe.”

“I suppose so,” he said wearily. “Though I’d much rather look at this.” He indicated the picture of the man on the wall.

“Who is it?”

“You mean you don’t know? It’s Richard Chantry—his only major self-portrait.”

I gave the picture a closer look. The head was a little like
a lion’s head, with rumpled tawny hair, a full beard partly masking an almost feminine mouth, deep eyes the color of emeralds. It seemed to radiate force.

“Did you know him?” I said to Planter.

“Indeed I did. I was one of his discoverers, in a sense.”

“Do you believe he’s still alive?”

“I don’t know. I earnestly hope he is. But if he is alive, and if he’s painting, he’s keeping his work to himself.”

“Why would he take off the way he did?”

“I don’t know,” Planter repeated. “I think he was a man who lived in phases, like the moon. Perhaps he came to the end of this phase.” Planter looked around a little contemptuously at the other people in the crowded room. “This painting you want me to look at, is it a Chantry?”

“I wouldn’t know. Maybe you can tell me.”

I led him out to my car and showed him in my headlights the small seascape I had taken from Paul Grimes’s convertible. He lifted it out of my hands with delicate care, as if he were showing me how to handle a painting.

But what he said was, “I’m afraid it’s pretty bad. It’s certainly not a Chantry, if that’s your question.”

“Do you have any idea who might have painted it?”

He considered the question. “It could be the work of Jacob Whitmore. If so, it’s very early Whitmore—purely and clumsily representational. I’m afraid poor Jacob’s career recapitulated the history of modern art a generation or so late. He’d worked his way up to surrealism and was beginning to discover symbolism, when he died.”

“When did he die?”

“Yesterday.” Planter seemed to take pleasure in giving me this mild shock. “I understood he went for a dip in the sea off Sycamore Point and had a heart attack.” He looked down musingly at the picture in his hands. “I wonder what Paul Grimes thought he could do with this. A good painter’s prices will often go up at his death. But Jacob Whitmore was not a good painter.”

“Does his work resemble Chantry’s?”

“No. It does not.” Planter’s eyes probed at my face. “Why?”

“I’ve heard that Paul Grimes may not have been above selling fake Chantrys.”

“I see. Well, he’d have had a difficult time selling this as a Chantry. It isn’t even a passable Whitmore. As you can see for yourself, it’s no more than half finished.” Planter added with elaborate cruel wit, “He took his revenge on the sea in advance by painting it badly.”

I looked at the blurred and swirling blues and greens in the unfinished seascape. However bad the painting was, it seemed to be given some depth and meaning by the fact that the painter had died in that sea.

“Did you say he lived at Sycamore Point?”

“Yes. That’s on the beach north of the campus.”

“Did he have any family?”

“He had a girl,” Planter said. “As a matter of fact, she called me up today. She wanted me to come and look at the paintings he left behind. She’s selling them off cheap, I understand. Frankly I wouldn’t buy them at any price.”

He handed the picture back to me and told me how to find the place. I got into my car and drove northward past the university to Sycamore Point.

The girl that Jacob Whitmore had left behind was a mournful blonde in a rather late stage of girlhood. She lived in one of half a dozen cottages and cabins that sprawled across the sandy base of the point. She held her door almost completely closed and peered at me through the crack as if I might be bringing a second disaster.

“What do you want?”

“I’m interested in pictures.”

“A lot of them are gone. I’ve been selling them off. Jake drowned yesterday—I suppose you know that. He left me without a sou.”

Her voice was dark with sorrow and resentment. The darkness appeared to have seeped up from her mind into the roots of her hair. She looked past me out to sea where the barely visible waves were rolling in like measured installments of eternity.

“May I come in and look?”

“I guess so. Sure.”

She opened the door and swung it shut behind me against the wind. The room smelled of the sea, of wine and pot and mildew. The furniture was sparse and broken-down. It looked like a house that had barely survived a battle—an earlier stage of the same desultory battle against poverty and failure that had passed through the Johnson house on Olive Street.

The woman went into an inner room and emerged with a stack of unframed paintings in her arms. She set them down on the warped rattan table.

“These’ll cost you ten apiece, or forty-five for five of them. Jake used to get more for his paintings at the Saturday art show on Santa Teresa beach. A while ago, he sold one of them to a dealer for a good price. But I can’t afford to wait.”

“Was Paul Grimes the dealer?”

“That’s right.” She looked at me with some suspicion. “Are you a dealer, too?”

“No.”

“But you know Paul Grimes?”

“Slightly.”

“Is he honest?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I don’t think he is. He put on quite an act about how much he liked Jake’s work. He was going to publicize it on a big scale and make our fortune. I thought that Jake’s big dream had come true at last. The dealers would be knocking on our door, Jake’s prices would skyrocket. But Grimes bought two measly pictures and that was that. One of them wasn’t even Jake’s—it was somebody else’s.”

“Who painted the other picture?”

“I don’t know. Jake didn’t discuss his business with me. I think he took the picture on consignment from one of his friends on the beach.”

“Can you describe the picture?”

“It was a picture of a woman—maybe a portrait, maybe imaginary. She was a beautiful woman, with hair the same color as mine.” She touched her own bleached hair; the action
seemed to arouse her fear or suspicion. “Why is everybody so interested in that picture? Was it worth a lot?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think it was. Jake wouldn’t tell me what he got for it, but I know we’ve been living on the money for the last couple of months. The money ran out yesterday. And so,” she added in a toneless voice, “did Jake.”

She turned away and spread out the unframed paintings on the table. Most of them were unfinished-looking small seascapes like the one in my car that I’d shown to Arthur Planter. The drowned man had clearly been obsessed by the sea, and I couldn’t help wondering if his drowning had been entirely accidental.

I said, “Were you suggesting that Jake drowned himself?”

“No, I was not.” She changed the subject abruptly: “I’ll give you all five of them for forty dollars. The canvases alone are worth that much. You know that if you’re a painter!”

“I’m not a painter.”

“I sometimes wonder if Jake was. He painted for over thirty years and ended up with nothing to show for it but this.” The gesture of her hand took in the paintings on the table, the house and its history, Jake’s death. “Nothing but this and me.”

She smiled, or grimaced with half of her face. Her eyes remained cold as a sea bird’s, peering down into the roiled and cloudy past.

She caught me watching her and recoiled from the look on my face. “I’m not as bad as you think I am,” she said. “If you want to know why I’m selling these things, I want to buy him a coffin. I don’t want the county to bury him in one of those pine boxes. And I don’t want to leave him lying in the basement of the county hospital.”