The Blue Hammer

"We could talk in your room."

"No, thanks." She gave me a sharp dark paranoid look, like a frightened animal peering out from the cover of her hair. "The room may be bugged. That's one reason I can't stay in it."

"Who would bug it?"

"Maybe the cops. Maybe the killers. What difference does it make? They're all in this together."

"Come out and sit in my car."

"No, thanks."

"Then let's take a walk, Paola."

Surprisingly she agreed. We went out and joined the people on the sidewalk. Across the road, a line of palms tossed their plumes above the empty booths of the weekly art show. Beyond them the phosphorescent white waves broke and rose and receded as if they had been set the eternal task of marking time and measuring space.

Gradually, as we moved along the sidewalk, Paola became less tense. Our movements seemed to relate to the natural rhythms of the sea. The sky opened out above us, poorly lit by the low sinking moon on the horizon.

Paola touched my arm. "You asked me who killed my father."

"Yes."

"You want to know what I think?"

"Tell me what you think."

"Well, I've been going over in my mind everything my father said. You know, he believed that Richard Chantry was alive and staying here in town under a different name. And he thought that Chantry actually painted that picture of Mildred Mead. I thought so, too, when I saw it. I don't claim to be an expert, like my father, but it looked like a Chantry to me."

"Are you sure your father's opinion was honest, Paola? The picture was worth a lot more to him if it was a Chantry."

"I know that, and so did he. That's why he did his best to authenticate it. He spent the last days of his life trying to locate Chantry and trace the picture to him. He even looked up Mildred Mead, who is living here in town. She was Chantry's favorite model, though of course she didn't actually sit for that particular portrait. She's an old woman now."

"Have you seen her?"

She nodded. "My father took me to see her a couple of days before he was killed. Mildred was a friend of my mother's in Arizona, and I've known her ever since I was a child. My father probably thought that having me there would get her talking. But Mildred didn't say much the day we visited her."

"Exactly where was this?"

"She has a little place in a court. She was just moving in. I think it's called Magnolia Court. There's a big magnolia tree in the middle of it."

"In town here?"

"Yes. It's in the downtown section. She said she took it because she couldn't do much walking any more. She didn't talk much, either."

"Why not?"

"I think she was scared. My father kept pressing her about Richard Chantry. Was he alive or dead? Did he paint that picture? But she didn't want to talk about him. She said she hadn't seen him in over thirty years and he was probably dead, and she hoped he was. She sounded very bitter."

"I'm not surprised. Chantry may have killed her son William."

"And he may have killed my father, too. My father could have traced the picture to him and got himself killed for his trouble."

Her voice was low and frightened. She looked around suspiciously at the palms and the low moon, as if they were parts of a shabby stage set hiding the actual jungle life of the world. Her hands grasped at each other and pulled in opposing directions.

"I've got to get out of this town. The police say I have to stick around, they need me for a witness. But they're not even protecting me."

"Protecting you from what?" I said, though I knew the answer.

"Chantry. Who else? He killed my father-I know that in my bones. But I don't know who he is or where he is. I don't even know what he looks like any more. He could be any man I meet on the street."

Her voice was rising. Other people on the sidewalk had begun to notice us. We were approaching a restaurant-bar that was spilling jazz through its open front door. I steered her in and sat her at a table. The room was narrow and deep, resembling a tu

"I don't like that music," she said.

"No matter. You need a drink."

She shook her dark head. "I can't drink. Alcohol drives me crazy. It was the same with my father. He told me that was why he went on drugs." She covered her ears with her hands and closed her eyes. "I've got to get out of here."

I took her hand and drew her to her feet. Pulling and jerking against my movements, she followed me out. She stared at the people on the street in profound distrust, ready to yell if anyone looked twice at her. She was on the narrow edge of hysteria or something worse.

I gripped her arm and walked her quickly in the direction of the hotel.

She hung back. "I don't want to go back there. I don't like it there. They kept me up all night, knocking and fooling around and whispering. They think that any woman is their meat."

"Then check out of the place."

"I wouldn't know where to go. I guess I could go back to the gallery. I have a little room in the back there. But I'm afraid to."

"Because your father isn't there?"

"No." She hugged herself and shuddered. "Because he might come back."

That sent a chill through me. I didn't quite believe that the woman was losing her mind, but she was trying hard to. If she went on like this, she might succeed before morning.

For various reasons, I felt responsible for her. I made a kind of superstitious bargain with the controlling forces of the world, if any. If I tried to look after Paola, then maybe Betty would be looked after.

I took Paola into the Monte Cristo and paid her bill and helped her pack her suitcase and carried it out to my car.

She trotted along beside me. "Where are we going?"

"I'll get you a room in my motel. It's across from the yacht harbor, and it's quieter. There's an all-night restaurant on the corner if you get hungry."

"I'm hungry now," she said. "I haven't been eating."

I took her to the restaurant for a sandwich, then got her checked into the motel. Biemeyer could pay for her room. She was a witness.

I left the motel without going into my own room. But when I was out in the parking lot getting into my car, I had a sudden wild idea that Betty might be waiting for me in that room. I went and looked. The room was empty, the bed unslept-in.

There was only one thing I could do: follow my case until it took me to her. Not too late. Please.

XXXV

The magnolia tree hung like a tethered cloud over the court to which it had given its name. There was light in only one of the small cottages, shining dimly through drawn blinds. I tapped on the screen door.

I heard a movement behind it, and then a breathing silence. A woman's voice finally said, "Who is that?"

"My name is Archer. I'm a private detective working for Jack Biemeyer."

"Then you can go plumb to hell," she said quietly. "But before you do you can go back and tell Jack Biemeyer to do the same."

"I'll be glad to, Miss Mead. I don't like that s.o.b. either." She opened the i

"Lew Archer."

"Did Jack Biemeyer send you here?"

"Not exactly. He had a picture stolen-a painting of you. I thought you might be able to help me trace it."

"How did Jack know I was here? I haven't told a living soul."

"Paola Grimes sent me."

"I see. I should have known better than to let her into my house." Her body had stiffened as if she were getting ready to slam the door in my face. "She's a bad-luck member of a bad-luck family."

"I talked to her mother, Juanita, this morning in Copper City. She sent her best wishes to you."

"Did she? That's nice."