"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 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.

XV

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?"