The Blue Hammer

by Ross Macdonald

  Standing behind the table with the air of a proprietor was the large dark hook-nosed man, whom the girl addressed as Rico, I had met on my earlier visit. He cut some slices off a baked ham and made me a sandwich with which he offered me wine. I asked for beer instead, if he didn't mind. He strutted toward the back of the house, grumbling.

  "Is he a servant?"

  Betty Jo answered me with deliberate vagueness: "More or less." She changed the subject. "A big day doing what?"

  "I'm a private detective. I was working."

  "Policeman was one of the thoughts that occurred to me. Are you on a case?"

  "More or less."

  "How exciting." She squeezed my arm. "Does it have to do with the picture the Biemeyers had stolen?"

  "You're very well informed."

  "I try to be. I don't intend to write a social column for the rest of my life. Actually I heard about the missing picture in the newsroom this morning. I understand it's a conventionalized picture of a woman."

  "So I've been told. I haven't seen it… What else was the newsroom saying?"

  "That the picture was probably a fake. Is it?"

  "The Biemeyers don't think so. But Mrs. Chantry does."

  "If Francine says it's a fake, it probably is. I think she knows by heart every painting her husband did. Not that he did so many-fewer than a hundred altogether. His high period only lasted seven years. And then he disappeared. Or something."

  "What do you mean, 'Or something'?"

  "Some old-timers in town here think he was murdered. But that's pure speculation, so far as I can find out."

  "Murdered by whom?"

  She gave me a quick bright probing look. "Francine Chantry. You won't quote me, will you?"

  "You wouldn't have said it if you thought I would. Why Francine?"

  "He disappeared so suddenly. People always suspect the spouse, don't they?"

  "Sometimes with good reason," I said. "Are you professionally interested in the Chantry disappearance?"

  "I'd like to write about it, if that's what you mean."

  "That's what I mean. I'll make a deal with you."

  She gave me another of her probing looks, this one edged with sexual suspicion. "Oh?"

  "I don't mean that. I mean this. I'll give you a hot tip on the Chantry case. You tell me what you find out."

  "How hot?"

  "This hot."

  I told her about the dead man at the hospital. Her eyes became narrower and brighter. She pushed out her lips like a woman expecting to be kissed, but kissing was not what was on her mind.

  "That's hot enough."

  Rico came back into the room carrying a foaming glass.

  "It took me a long time," he said in a complaining tone. "The beer wasn't cold. Nobody else drinks beer. I had to chill it."

  "Thanks very much."

  I took the cold glass from his hand and offered it to Betty Jo.

  She smiled and declined. "I have to work tonight. Will you forgive me if I run off now?"

  I advised her to talk to Mackendrick. She said she would, and went out the back door. Right away I found myself missing her.

  I ate my ham sandwich and drank my beer. Then I went back into the room where the music was. The woman at the piano was playing a show tune with heavy-handed professional assurance. Mrs. Chantry, who was talking with Arthur Planter, caught my eye and detached herself from him.

  "What happened to Betty Jo? I hope you didn't do away with her."

  She meant the remark to be light, but neither of us smiled.

  "Miss Siddon had to leave."

  Mrs. Chantry's eyes became even more unsmiling. "She didn't tell me that she was going to leave. I hope she gives my party proper coverage-we're raising money for the art museum."

  "I'm sure she will."

  "Did she tell you where she was going?"

  "To the hospital. There's been a murder. Paul Grimes was killed."

  Her face opened, almost as if I'd accused her, then closed against the notion. She was quiet but internally active, rearranging her face from the inside. She drew me into the dining room, reacted to the presence of Rico, and took me into a small sitting room.

  She closed the door and faced me in front of a dead and empty fireplace. "How do you know Paul Grimes was murdered?"

  "I found him dying."

  "Where?"

  "Near the hospital. He may have been trying to get there for treatment, but he died before he made it. He was very badly smashed up around the head and face."

  The woman took a deep breath. She was still very handsome, in a cold silvery way, but the life seemed to have gone out of her face. Her eyes had enlarged and darkened.

  "Could it have been an accident, Mr. Archer?"

  "No. I think he was murdered. So do the police."

  "Who is in charge of the case, do you know?"

  "Captain Mackendrick."

  "Good." She gave an abrupt little nod. "He knew my husband."

  "How does your husband come into this? I don't understand."

  "It's inevitable that he should. Paul Grimes was close to Richard at one time. His death is bound to stir up all the old stories."

  "What old stories?"

  "We don't have time for them now. Perhaps another day." Her hand came out and encircled my wrist, like a bracelet of ice. "I'm going to ask you to do something for me, Mr. Archer. Two things. Please don't tell Captain Mackendrick or anyone else what I said to you about poor dear Paul today. He was a good friend to Richard, to me as well. I was angry when I said what I did. I shouldn't have said it, and I'm terribly sorry."

  She released my wrist and leaned on the back of a straight chair. Her voice was veering up and down the scale, but her eyes were steady and intense. I could almost feel them tangibly on my face. But I didn't really believe in her sudden kindly feeling for Paul Grimes, and I wondered what had happened between them in the past.

  As if the past had slugged her from behind, she sat down rather suddenly on the chair.

  She made her second request in a wan voice, "Will you get me a drink, please?"

  "Water?"

  "Yes, water."

  I brought her a glassful from the dining room. Her hands were shaking. Holding the glass in both hands, she sipped at the water and then drank it down and thanked me.

  "I don't know why I'm thanking you. You've ruined my party."

  "I'm sorry. But it really wasn't me. Whoever killed Paul Grimes ruined your party. I'm just the flunky who brought the bad tidings and gets put to death."

  She glanced up at my face. "You're quite an intelligent man."

  "Do you want to talk to me?"

  "I thought I had been."

  "I mean really talk."

  She shook her head. "I have guests in the house."

  "They'll do all right on their own, as long as the drinks hold out."

  "I really can't." She rose to leave the room. I said, "Wasn't Paul Grimes supposed to be one of your guests tonight?"

  "Certainly not."

  "He was carrying an invitation to your party. Didn't you send it to him?"

  She turned to face me, leaning on the door. "I may have. I sent out quite a few invitations. Some were sent out by other members of my committee."

  "But you must know whether Paul Grimes was invited."

  "I don't think he was."

  "But you're not sure?"

  "That's right."

  "Has he ever been here to your house?"

  "Not to my knowledge. I don't understand what you're trying to prove."

  "I'm trying to get some idea of your relationship with Grimes."

  "There wasn't any."

  "Good or bad, I mean. This afternoon you practically accused him of faking the Biemeyers' painting. Tonight you invite him to your party."

  "The invitations went out early last week."

  "You admit that you sent him one."

  "I may have. I probably did. What I said to you this afternoon about Paul wasn't intended
for the record. I confess he gets on my nerves."

  "He won't any more."

  "I know that. I'm sorry. I'm sorry he's been killed." She hung her pretty gray head. "And I did send him that invitation. I was hoping for a reconciliation. We hadn't been friends for some time. I thought he might respond to a show of warmth on my part."

  She looked at me from under the wings of her hair. Her eyes were cold and watchful. I didn't believe what she was telling me, and it must have showed.

  She said with renewed insistence, "I hate to lose friends, particularly friends of my husband's. There are fewer and fewer survivors of the Arizona days, and Paul was one of them. He was with us when Richard made his first great breakthrough. Paul really made it possible, you know. But he never succeeded in making his own breakthrough."

  "Were there hard feelings between them?"

  "Between my husband and Paul? Certainly not. Paul was one of Richards' teachers. He took great pride in Richards' accomplishment."

  "How did your husband feel about Paul?"

  "He was grateful to him. They were always good friends, as long as Richard was with us." She gave me a long and doubting look. "I don't know where this is leading."

  "Neither do I, Mrs. Chantry."

  "Then what's the purpose of it? You're wasting my time and your own."

  "I don't think so. Tell me, is your husband still alive?"

  She shook her head. "I can't answer that. I don't know. I honestly don't know."

  "How long is it since you've seen him?"

  "He left in the summer of 1950. I haven't seen him since then."

  "Were there indications that something had happened to him?"

  "On the contrary. He wrote me a wonderful letter. If you'd like to see it-"

  "I've seen it. As far as you know, then, he's still alive."

  "I hope and pray he is. I believe he is."

  "Have you heard from him since he took off?"

  "Never."

  "Do you expect to?"

  "I don't know." She turned her head to one side, the cords of her white neck taut. "This is painful for me."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Then why are you doing it?"

  "I'm trying to find out if there's any possibility that your husband killed Paul Grimes."

  "That's an absurd idea. Absurd and obscene."

  "Grimes didn't seem to think so. He spoke Chantry's name before he died."

  She didn't quite faint, but she seemed to come close to it. She turned white under her makeup, and might have fallen. I held her by the upper arms. Her flesh was as smooth as marble, and almost as cold.

  Rico opened the door and shouldered his way in. I realized how big he was. The small room hardly contained him.

  "What goes on?"

  "Nothing," the woman said. "Please go away, Rico."

  "Is he bothering you?"

  "No, he's not. But I want both of you to go away. Please."

  "You heard her," Rico said to me.

  "So did you. Mrs. Chantry and I have something to discuss." I turned to her. "Don't you want to know what Grimes said?"

  "I suppose I have to. Rico, do you mind leaving us alone now? It's perfectly all right."

  It wasn't all right with Rico. He gave me a black scowl that at the same time managed to look hurt, like the scowl of a little boy who has been told to stand in the corner. He was a big good-looking man, if you liked the dark florid type. I couldn't help wondering if Mrs. Chantry did.

  "Please, Rico." She sounded like the mistress of a barely controllable watchdog or a jealous stud.

  The big man moved sideways out of the room. I closed the door behind him.

  Mrs. Chantry turned to me. "Rico's been with me a long time. He was devoted to my husband. When Richard left, he transferred his allegiance to me."

  "Of course," I said.

  She colored faintly, but didn't pursue the subject. "You were going to tell me what Paul Grimes said to you before he died."

  "So I was. He thought I was your husband, apparently. He said: 'Chantry? Leave me alone.' Later he said: 'I know you, Chantry, you bastard.' It naturally gave me the idea that it may have been your husband who beat him to death."

  She dropped her hands from her face, which looked pale and sick. "That's impossible. Richard was a gentle person. Paul Grimes was his good friend."

  "Do I resemble your husband?"

  "No. Richard was much younger-" She caught herself. "But of course he'd be a great deal older now, wouldn't he?"

  "We all are. Twenty-five years older."

  "Yes." She bowed her head as if she suddenly felt the weight of the years. "But Richard didn't look at all like you. Perhaps there's some similarity of voices."

  "But Grimes called me Chantry before I spoke. I never did say anything to him directly."

  "What does that prove? Please go away now, won't you? This has been very hard. And I have to go out there again."

  She went back into the dining room. After a minute or two I followed her. She and Rico were standing by the candlelit table with their heads close together, talking in intimate low tones.

  I felt like an intruder and moved over to the windows. Through them I could see the harbor in the distance. Its masts and cordage resembled a bleached winter grove stripped of leaves and gauntly beautiful. The candle flames reflected in the windows seemed to flicker like St. Elmo's fire around the distant masts.

  X

  I went out to the big front room. The art expert Arthur Planter was standing with his back to the room, in front of one of the paintings on the wall. When I spoke to him, he didn't turn or answer me, but his tall narrow body stiffened a little.

  I repeated his name. "Mr. Planter?"

  He turned unwillingly from the picture, which was a head-and-shoulders portrait of a man. "What can I do for you, sir?"

  "I'm a private detective-"

  "Really?" The pale narrow eyes in his thin face were looking at me without interest.

  "Did you know Paul Grimes?"

  "I wouldn't say I _know_ him. I've done some business with him, a very little." He pursed his lips as if the memory had a bitter taste.

  "You won't do any more," I said, hoping to shock him into communication. "He was murdered earlier this evening."

  "Am I a suspect?" His voice was dry and bored.

  "Hardly. Some paintings were found in his car. Would you be willing to look at one of them?"

  "With what end in view?"

  "Identification, maybe."

  "I suppose so," he said wearily. "Though I'd much rather look at this." He indicated the picture of the man on the wall.

  "Who is it?"

  "You mean you don't know? It's Richard Chantry-his only major self-portrait."

  I gave the picture a closer look. The head was a little like a lion's head, with rumpled tawny hair, a full beard partly masking an almost feminine mouth, deep eyes the color of emeralds. It seemed to radiate force.

  "Did you know him?" I said to Planter.

  "Indeed I did. I was one of his discoverers, in a sense."

  "Do you believe he's still alive?"

  "I don't know. I earnestly hope he is. But if he is alive, and if he's painting, he's keeping his work to himself."

  "Why would he take off the way he did?"

  "I don't know," Planter repeated. "I think he was a man who lived in phases, like the moon. Perhaps he came to the end of this phase." Planter looked around a little contemptuously at the other people in the crowded room. "This painting you want me to look at, is it a Chantry?"

  "I wouldn't know. Maybe you can tell me."

  I led him out to my car and showed him in my headlights the small seascape I had taken from Paul Grimes's convertible. He lifted it out of my hands with delicate care, as if he were showing me how to handle a painting.

  But what he said was, "I'm afraid it's pretty bad. It's certainly not a Chantry, if that's your question."

  "Do you have any idea who might have painted it?"

>   He considered the question. "It could be the work of Jacob Whitmore. If so, it's very early Whitmore-purely and clumsily representational. I'm afraid poor Jacob's career recapitulated the history of modern art a generation or so late. He'd worked his way up to surrealism and was beginning to discover symbolism, when he died."

  "When did he die?"

  "Yesterday." Planter seemed to take pleasure in giving me this mild shock. "I understood he went for a dip in the sea off Sycamore Point and had a heart attack." He looked down musingly at the picture in his hands. "I wonder what Paul Grimes thought he could do with this. A good painter's prices will often go up at his death. But Jacob Whitmore was not a good painter."

  "Does his work resemble Chantry's?"

  "No. It does not." Planter's eyes probed at my face. "Why?"

  "I've heard that Paul Grimes may not have been above selling fake Chantrys."

  "I see. Well, he'd have had a difficult time selling this as a Chantry. It isn't even a passable Whitmore. As you can see for yourself, it's no more than half finished." Planter added with elaborate cruel wit, "He took his revenge on the sea in advance by painting it badly."

  I looked at the blurred and swirling blues and greens in the unfinished seascape. However bad the painting was, it seemed to be given some depth and meaning by the fact that the painter had died in that sea.

  "Did you say he lived at Sycamore Point?"

  "Yes. That's on the beach north of the campus."

  "Did he have any family?"

  "He had a girl," Planter said. "As a matter of fact, she called me up today. She wanted me to come and look at the paintings he left behind. She's selling them off cheap, I understand. Frankly I wouldn't buy them at any price."

  He handed the picture back to me and told me how to find the place. I got into my car and drove northward past the university to Sycamore Point.

  The girl that Jacob Whitmore had left behind was a mournful blonde in a rather late stage of girlhood. She lived in one of half a dozen cottages and cabins that sprawled across the sandy base of the point. She held her door almost completely closed and peered at me through the crack as if I might be bringing a second disaster.

  "What do you want?"

  "I'm interested in pictures."

  "A lot of them are gone. I've been selling them off. Jake drowned yesterday-I suppose you know that. He left me without a sou."