"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.

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?"