Ross MACDONALD - The Archer Files

The Admiral brushed past her without waiting to hear more, and started for the house. Alice went with him. The old man walked unsteadily, leaning on her arm.

“Did you really see Hilary last night?” I asked her.

She stood there for a minute, looking at me. Her face was disorganized, raddled with passion. “Yes, I saw him. I had a date with him at ten o’clock. I waited in his flat for over two hours. He didn’t show up until after midnight. I couldn’t tell him that.” She jerked one shoulder contemptuously toward the house.

“And he had red clay on his clothes?”

“Yes. It took me a while to connect it with Hugh.”

“Are you going to tell the police?”

She smiled a secret and unpleasant smile. “How can I? I’ve got a marriage to go on with, such as it is.”

“You told me.”

“I like you.” Without moving, she gave the impression of leaning towards me. “I’m fed up with all the little stinkers that populate this town.”

I kept it cool and clean, and very nasty: “Were you fed up with Hugh Western, Mrs. Turner?”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard that he dropped you hard a couple of months ago. Somebody dropped him hard last night in his studio.”

“I haven’t been near his studio for weeks.”

“Never did any posing for him?”

Her face seemed to grow smaller and sharper. She laid one narrow taloned hand on my arm. “Can I trust you, Mr. Archer?”

“Not if you murdered Hugh.”

“I didn’t; I swear I didn’t. Hilary did.”

“But you were there last night.”

“No.”

“I think you were. There was a charcoal sketch on the easel, and you posed for it, didn’t you?”

Her nerves were badly strained, but she tried to be coquettish. “How would you know?”

“The way you carry your body. It reminds me of the picture.”

“Do you approve?”

“Listen, Mrs. Turner. You don’t seem to realize that that sketch is evidence, and destroying it is a crime.”

“I didn’t destroy it.”

“Then where did you put it?”

“I haven’t said I took it.”

“But you did.”

“Yes, I did,” she admitted finally. “But it isn’t evidence in this case. I posed for it six months ago, and Hugh had it in his studio. When I heard he was dead this afternoon, I went to get it, just to be sure it wouldn’t turn up in the papers. He had it on the easel for some reason, and had ruined it with a beard. I don’t know why.”

“The beard would make sense if your story was changed a little. If you quarreled while Hugh was sketching you last night, and you hit him over the head with a metal fist. You might have drawn the beard yourself, to cover up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If I had anything to cover up I would have destroyed the sketch. Anyway, I can’t draw.”

“Hilary can.”

“Go to hell,” she said between her teeth. “You’re just a little stinker like the rest of them.”

She walked emphatically to the house. I followed her into the long, dim hallway. Halfway up the stairs to the second floor she turned and flung down to me: “I hadn’t destroyed it, but I’m going to now.”

There was nothing I could do about that, and I started out. When I passed the door of the living room, the Admiral called out, “Is that you, Archer? Come here a minute, eh?”

He was sitting with Alice on a semicircular leather lounge, set into a huge bay window at the front of the room. He got up and moved toward me ponderously, his head down like a charging bull’s. His face was a jaundiced yellow, bloodless under the tan.

“You’re entirely wrong about the Chardin,” he said. “Hilary Todd had nothing to do with stealing it. In fact, it wasn’t stolen. I removed it from the gallery myself.”

“You denied that this morning.”

“I do as I please with my own possessions. I’m accountable to no one, certainly not to you.”

“Dr. Silliman might like to know,” I said with irony.

“I’ll tell him in my own good time.”

“Will you tell him why you took it?”

“Certainly. Now, if you’ve made yourself sufficiently obnoxious, I’ll ask you to leave my house.”

“Father.” Alice came up to him and laid a hand on his arm. “Mr. Archer has only been trying to help.”

“And getting nowhere,” I said. “I made the mistake of assuming that some of Hugh’s friends were honest.”

“That’s enough!” he roared. “Get out!”

Alice caught up with me on the veranda. “Don’t go away mad. Father can be terribly childish, but he means well.”

“I don’t get it. He lied this morning, or else he’s lying now.”

“He isn’t lying,” she said earnestly. “He was simply playing a trick on Dr. Silliman and the trustees. It’s what happened to Hugh afterwards that made it seem important.”

“Did you know that he took the picture himself?”

“He told me just now, before you came into the house. I made him tell you.”

“You’d better let Silliman in on the joke,” I said unpleasantly. “He’s probably going crazy.”

“He is,” she said. “I saw him at the gallery this afternoon, and he was tearing his hair. Do you have your car?”

“I came up here in a taxi.”

“I’ll drive you down.”

“Are you sure you feel up to it?”

“It’s better when I’m doing something,” she said.

An old black sedan was standing in the drive beside the house. We got in, and she backed it into the street and turned downhill toward the center of town.

Watching her face, I said, “Of course you realize I don’t believe his story.”

“Father’s, you mean?” She didn’t seem surprised. “I don’t know what to believe, myself.”

“When did he say he took the Chardin?”

“Last night. Hugh was working on the mezzanine. Father slipped away and took the picture out to the car.”

“Didn’t Hugh keep the door locked?”

“Apparently not. Father said not.”

“But what possible reason could he have for stealing his own picture?”

“To prove a point. Father’s been arguing for a long time that it would be easy to steal a picture from the gallery. He’s been trying to get the board of trustees to install a burglar alarm. He’s really hipped on the subject. He wouldn’t lend his Chardin to the gallery until they agreed to insure it.”

“For twenty-five thousand dollars,” I said, half to myself. Twenty-five thousand dollars was motive enough for a man to steal his own picture. And if Hugh Western witnessed the theft, there was motive for murder. “Your father’s made a pretty good story out of it. But where’s the picture now?”

“He didn’t tell me. It’s probably in the house somewhere.”

“I doubt it. It’s more likely somewhere in Walter Hendryx’ house.”

She let out a little gasp. “What makes you say that? Do you know Walter Hendryx?”

“I’ve met him. Do you?”

“He’s a horrible man,” she said. “I can’t imagine why you think he has it.”

“It’s purely a hunch.”

“Where would he get it? Father wouldn’t dream of selling it to him.”

“Hilary Todd would.”

“Hilary? You think Hilary stole it?”

“I’m going to ask him. Let me off at his shop, will you? I’ll see you at the gallery later.”

The Closed sign was still hanging inside the plate glass, and the front door was locked. I went around to the back of the shop by the alley. The door under the stairs was standing partly open. I went in without knocking.

The living room was empty. The smell of alcohol rose from the stain on the wall where Sarah had smashed the glass. I crossed the passage to the door on the other side. It, too, was partly open. I pushed it wider and went in.