"Who are you, anyway?"

"I'm a private detective." I told him my name. "The Biemeyers hired me to reclaim their picture. Where is it, Fred?"

"I don't know."

He wagged his head despondently. As if I had taken hold of his head and squeezed it with my hands, clear drops of sweat stood out on his forehead.

"What happened to it, Fred?"

"I took it home, I admit that. I had no intention of stealing it. I only wanted to study it."

"When did you take it home?"

"Yesterday."

"Where is it now?"

"I don't know. Honestly. Somebody must have stolen it from my room."

"From the house on Olive Street?"

"Yes, sir. Somebody broke into the house and stole it while I was sleeping. It was there when I went to bed and when I woke up it was gone."

"You must be a heavy sleeper."

"I guess I am."

"Or a heavy liar."

His slender body was shaken by a flurry of shame or anger. I thought he was going to take a swing at me, and I set myself for that. But he made a dash for the stairs. I was too slow to head him off. By the time I got down to the street, he was driving away in his old blue Ford.

I bought a natureburger in a paper bag and took the elevator back up to the third floor. Doris let me into her apartment, looking disappointed that it was me.

I handed her the sandwich. "Here's something to eat."

"I'm not hungry. Fred promised to bring me something, anyway."

"You better eat that. Fred may not be coming today."

"But he said he would."

"He may be in trouble, Doris, about that picture." Her hand closed, squeezing the sandwich in the bag. "Are my parents trying to get him?"

"I wouldn't put it that strongly."

"You don't know my parents. They'll make him lose his job at the museum. He'll never become a college graduate. And all because he tried to do them a favor."

"I don't quite follow that."

She nodded her head emphatically. "He was trying to authenticate their painting. He wanted to examine the paint for age. If it was fresh paint, it would probably mean that it wasn't genuine."

"Wasn't a genuine Chantry?"

"That's correct. Fred thought when he first looked at it that it wasn't genuine. At least he wasn't sure. And he doesn't trust the man my parents bought it from."

"Grimes?"

"That's right. Fred said he has a bad reputation in art circles."

I wondered what kind of a reputation Fred was going to have, now that the picture had been stolen. But there was no use worrying the girl about it. The meaning of her face was still as diffuse as a cloud. I left her with her dilapidated sandwich and drove back down along the freeway to the lower town.

The door of Paul Grimes's shop was locked. I knocked and got no answer. I rattled the knob and raised my voice. No answer. Peering into the dim interior, I could see nothing but emptiness and shadows.

I went into the liquor store and asked the black man if he had seen Paola.

"She was out in front an hour or so ago, loading some pictures into her van. As a matter of fact, I helped her."

"What kind of pictures?"

"Framed pictures. Weird junk, gobs of color. I like a picture to look like something real. No wonder they couldn't sell 'em."

"How do you know they couldn't sell 'em?"

"It stands to reason. She said they were giving up on the shop."

"Was Paul Grimes with her-the man with the beard?"

"Nope, he didn't show. I haven't seen him since I saw you."

"Did Paola say where she was going?"

"I didn't ask. She took off in the direction of Montevista." He pointed southwest with his thumb. "What kind of a van is she driving?"

"Old yellow Volkswagen. Is she in some kind of trouble?"

"No. I wanted to talk to her about a picture."

"To buy?"

"Maybe."

He looked at me incredulously, "you like that kind of stuff?"

"Sometimes."

"Too bad. If they knew they had a buyer, they might of stayed in business to accommodate you."

"They might. Will you sell me two half-pints of Tennessee whisky?"

"Why not a whole pint? It's cheaper that way."

"Two half-pints are better."

On my way uptown I stopped at the art museum, intending to ask for Fred. But the place was closed for the night.

I drove on up to Olive Street. Darkness had spread like a branching tree across the lawns and yards, and lights were coming on in the old houses. The hospital was a great pierced box of light. I parked near the gabled house where the Johnsons lived and made my way up its broken steps to the front door.

Fred's father must have been listening on the other side of the door. He spoke before I had a chance to knock: "Who is that?"

"Archer. I was here earlier today, looking for Fred."

"That's right. I remember." He sounded proud of the feat.

"May I come in and talk to you for a minute, Mr. Johnson?"

"Sorry, no can do. My wife locked the door."

"Where's the key?"

"Sarah took it with her to the hospital. She's afraid I'll go out in the street and get run over. But the fact is I'm completely sober. I'm so sober that it's making me physically sick. She's supposed to be a nurse, but little does she care." His voice was fogged with self-pity.

"Is there any way you can let me in? Through a window, maybe?"

"She'd crucify me."

"How would she know? I've got some whisky with me. Could you use a couple of snorts?"

His tone brightened. "Could I not. But how are you going to get in?"

"I have some keys."

It was a simple old lock, and the second key that I tried opened it. I closed the door behind me, moving into the cramped hallway with some difficulty. Johnson's thick body crowded mine. In the light of a dim overhead bulb, I could see that his face was working with excitement.

"You said you had some whisky for me."

"Hold on for a minute."

"But I'm sick. You can see that I'm sick."

I opened one of my half-pint bottles. He drained it in one continuous shuddering swallow, and licked the mouth of the empty bottle.

I felt like a pander. But the strong jolt of whisky didn't seem to bother him at all. Instead of making him drunker, it seemed to improve his diction and delivery.

"I used to drink Tennessee whisky in my palmy days. I drank Tennessee whisky and rode a Tennessee Walking Horse. That is Tennessee whisky, is it not?"

"You're right, Mr. Johnson."

"Just call me Jerry. I know a friend when I see one." He set down the empty bottle on the first step of the staircase, put his hand on my shoulder, and leaned his weight on it. "I won't forget this. What did you say your name was?"

"Archer."

"And what do you do for a living, Mr. Archer?"

"I'm a private investigator." I opened my wallet and showed Johnson a photostat of my state license. "Some people in town hired me to trace a painting that they lost. It's a portrait of a woman, probably by a well-known local painter named Richard Chantry. You've heard of him, I suppose."

He scowled with concentration. "I can't say I have. You should take it up with my son Fred. That's his department."

"I already have. Fred took the picture and brought it home."

"Here?"

"So he told me this afternoon."

"I don't believe it. Fred wouldn't do a thing like that. He's a good boy, he always has been. He never stole anything in his life. The people at the art museum trust him. Everybody trusts him."

I interrupted Johnson's alcoholic flow of words: "He claims he didn't steal it. He said he brought it home to make some tests on it."

"What kind of tests are you talking about?"

"I'm not sure. According to Fred, his idea was to find out how old the picture was. The artist who was supposed to have painted it disappeared a long time ago."