“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 Richard’s teachers. He took great pride in Richard’s 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.