"Can you name any of them?"

"I can think of one," she said. "Jake Whitmore knew Chantry. He used to deliver their paper. I think it was knowing Chantry that made a painter of him."

"I wonder if it was knowing Chantry that killed him."

Mrs. Brighton took off her glasses and wiped them with a lace-edged handkerchief. She put them on again and studied me through them.

"I'm not sure I follow you. Could you tell me just what you mean by that, in words of one syllable? I've had a long hard day."

"I have a feeling that Chantry may be here in town. It's something more than a feeling. Jack Biemeyer's stolen painting was probably a Chantry. It passed through two pairs of hands on its way to Biemeyer-Jake Whitmore's and Paul Grimes's. Both Whitmore and Grimes are dead. I guess you know that."

She bowed her gray head under the weight of the knowledge. "You think Betty's in real trouble, don't you?"

"She may be."

"Can I help? Do you want me to start phoning the nursing homes?"

"Yes. But please be careful. Don't mention any names. You have an aged aunt who needs custodial care. Get them to describe the facilities. Listen for sounds of guilt or any sign of trouble."

"I'm good at that," she said dryly. "I hear a lot of those kinds of sounds in the office. But I'm not sure that that's the best approach."

"What do you suggest?"

"I don't have anything specific in mind. It depends on what theory we're working on. Is it your idea that Betty located the nursing home where Mildred Mead is staying, was inveigled into going there, and got snatched? Isn't that a little melodramatic?"

"Melodramatic things are happening all the time."

She sighed. "I suppose you're right. I hear a lot of _them_ in the office, too. But isn't it just as likely that Betty simply took off on the track of something, and she'll be turning up again any time?"

"It may be just as likely," I said. "But don't forget that Jake Whitmore turned up drowned. Paul Grimes turned up beaten to death."

Her face absorbed the knowledge and grew heavy with it, like an old sponge absorbing water. "You're right, of course. We have to do what we can. But shouldn't we be going to the police?"

"As soon as we have something definite to take to them. Mackendrick is hard to convince."

"Is he not. Okay. I'll be in the office if you want me."

She gave me the number, and I wrote it down. I asked her further to make me a list of the nursing homes and their numbers as she called them.

XXIX

I drove up the dark hill to Biemeyer's house feeling angry and powerless. The house was blazing with lights but entirely silent.

Biemeyer answered the door with a drink held securely in his hand. He gave the impression that the drink was holding him up. Everything else about him, shoulders and knees and face, seemed to be sagging.

"What in the hell do you want?" His voice was husky and frayed, as if he had been doing a lot of shouting.

"I'd like to have a serious talk with you, Mr. Biemeyer."

"I can translate that. You want more money."

"Forget about the money for a change. I don't care about your money."

His face lengthened. He had hoisted his money up the mast, but I had failed to salute it. Slowly his face came together again, wrinkling around his dark hostile eyes.

"Does that mean you won't be sending me a bill?"

I was tempted to turn my back on him and leave, perhaps taking a swing at him first. But Biemeyer and his household possessed knowledge that I had to have. And working for them gave me standing with the police that I couldn't get in any other way.

"Please take it easy," I said. "The money you've advanced will probably cover it. If it doesn't, I'll send you a bill. After all, I did recover your daughter."

"But not the picture."

"I'm working on the picture, getting closer to it. Is there some place we could have a private talk?"

"No," he said. "There is not. All I'm asking you to do is to respect the sanctity of my home. If you won't do that, to hell with you."

Now even the glass in his hand was no longer steady. He waved it in a declamatory gesture and sloshed some liquor on the polished floor. Mrs. Biemeyer appeared behind him, as if the spilling of liquor was an understood signal in the family. Much farther back, half hidden by the edge of a partition, Doris stood still and silent.

"I think you should talk to him, Jack," Ruth Biemeyer said. "We've been through quite a lot in the last couple of days. And thanks in good part to Mr. Archer, we've survived it."

Her face was calm and smooth, and she was dressed for evening. Her voice was resigned. I guessed that she had made a bargain with whatever fates she recognized: bring Doris home and I'll put up with Jack. Well, Doris was there, standing like a Chirico figure in the receding distances of the house.

Biemeyer failed to put up an argument. He didn't even acknowledge his wife's remarks. He simply turned on his heel and led me through the house to his study. Doris gave me a small propitiatory smile as we went by. Her eyes were bright and scared.

Biemeyer sat down at his desk in front of the picture of his copper mine. He set down his drink and swiveled his chair toward me. "All right. What do you want from me now?"

"I'm looking for a pair of women. I think they may be together. One of them is Betty-Betty Jo Siddon."

Biemeyer leaned forward. "The society reporter? Don't tell me she's turned up missing."

"Just tonight. But she may be in danger. You may be able to help me find her."

"I don't see how. I haven't seen her in weeks. We don't go to many parties."

"She didn't get lost at a party, Mr. Biemeyer. I'm not sure how it happened, but I think she went to a nursing home in town here and got waylaid. That's the theory I have to work on, anyway."

"Where do I come in? I've never been in a nursing home in my life." He gave me a macho look and reached for his drink.

"Miss Siddon was looking for Mildred Mead."

His hand jerked and closed on his drink, spilling part of it on his trousers. "I never heard of her," he said without conviction.

"She was the subject of the painting I've been looking for. You must have recognized her."

"How?" he said. "I never met the woman in my life. What did you say her name was?"

"Mildred Mead. You bought her a house in Chantry Canyon quite a few years ago. That was a generous gift to a woman you say you never met. Incidentally, your daughter, Doris, ended up in that house last night. It's been taken over by a commune. Mildred sold them the house a few months ago and moved here. Don't tell me this is news to you."

"I'm not telling you anything."

Biemeyer's face had turned fiery red. He got to his feet. I expected him to take a swing at me. Instead he rushed out of the room.

I thought that was the end of our conversation. But he came back with a fresh drink and sat down opposite me again. His face had turned pale in blotches.

"Have you been researching me?"

"No."

"I don't believe you. How did you find out about Mildred Mead?"

"Her name came up in Arizona, together with yours."

He sighed. "They hate me there. There were times when I had to close down the smelter and put half of Copper City out of work. I know how it feels-I'm a Copper City boy myself. Back before the war, my family didn't have two nickels to rub against each other. I worked my way through high school and played football to stay in college. But I suppose you know all that already?"

I gave him a knowing look, which didn't come hard. I knew now.

"Have you talked to Mildred?" he said.

"No. I haven't seen her."

"She's an old woman now. But she was something to see in the old days. A beautiful thing." He opened and closed his free hand and gulped part of his drink. "When I finally got hold of her, it made everything worthwhile-all the work and the goddam football games getting my bones beaten. But she's old now. She finally got old."