to find the right words.
I got out my black-and-white photograph of the stolen painting. “Do you mind taking a look at this, Mrs. Chantry? It’s a photograph of the Biemeyers’ picture.”
“I have nothing to add to what I told you earlier. I’m sure it’s a fake. I’m familiar with all of my husband’s paintings, I believe, and this isn’t one of them.”
“Look at it anyway, will you?”
“I’ve already seen the painting itself, as I told you.”
“Did you recognize the model who sat for it?”
Her eyes met mine in an instant of shared knowledge. She had recognized the model.
“No,” she said.
“Will you take a look at this photo and try again?”
“I don’t see the point.”
“Try anyway, Mrs. Chantry. It may be important.”
“Not to me.”
“You can’t be sure,” I said.
“Oh, very well.”
She took the photograph from my hand and studied it. Her hand was shaking, and the picture fluttered like something in a high wind from the past. She handed it back to me as if she were glad to get rid of it.
“It does bear some resemblance to a woman I knew when I was a young girl.”
“When did you know her?”
“I didn’t really know her. I met her at a party in Santa Fe before the war.”
“What was her name?”
“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
I got out my black-and-white photograph of the stolen painting. “Do you mind taking a look at this, Mrs. Chantry? It’s a photograph of the Biemeyers’ picture.”
“I have nothing to add to what I told you earlier. I’m sure it’s a fake. I’m familiar with all of my husband’s paintings, I believe, and this isn’t one of them.”
“Look at it anyway, will you?”
“I’ve already seen the painting itself, as I told you.”
“Did you recognize the model who sat for it?”
Her eyes met mine in an instant of shared knowledge. She had recognized the model.
“No,” she said.
“Will you take a look at this photo and try again?”
“I don’t see the point.”
“Try anyway, Mrs. Chantry. It may be important.”
“Not to me.”
“You can’t be sure,” I said.
“Oh, very well.”
She took the photograph from my hand and studied it. Her hand was shaking, and the picture fluttered like something in a high wind from the past. She handed it back to me as if she were glad to get rid of it.
“It does bear some resemblance to a woman I knew when I was a young girl.”
“When did you know her?”
“I didn’t really know her. I met her at a party in Santa Fe before the war.”
“What was her name?”
“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
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