I found a clean-looking restaurant and took a seat by the front window so that I could watch the boats. They gave me the empathetic feeling that I was in motion, too, scudding along under complex pressures and even more complex controls toward the open sea.

I had ham and eggs with potatoes and toast and coffee. Then I drove uptown and parked in the lot behind the art museum.

Betty Jo met me at the front entrance.

I said, “We seem to be synchronized, Betty Jo.”

“Yes.” But she didn’t sound too happy about it.

“What’s the matter?”

“You just said it. My name. I hate my name.”

“Why?”

“It’s a silly name. A double name always sounds like a child’s name. It’s immature. I don’t like either of my names separately, either. Betty is such a plain name, and Jo sounds like a boy. But I suppose I have to settle for one of them. Unless you can suggest something better.”

“How about Lew?”

She didn’t smile. “You’re making fun of me. This is serious.”

She was a serious girl, and more delicate in her feelings than I’d imagined. It didn’t make me sorry that I had slept with her, but it lent a certain weight to the event. I hoped she wasn’t getting ready to fall in love, especially not with me. But I kissed her, lightly, philanthropically.

A young man had appeared at the entrance to the classical sculpture exhibit. He had a wavy blond head and a tapered torso. He was carrying the colored photograph of the memory painting.

“Betty Jo?”

“I’ve changed my name to Betty,” she said. “Please just call me Betty.”

“Okay, Betty.” The young man’s voice was precise and rather thin. “What I was going to say is, I matched up your picture with one of the Lashman pictures in the basement.”

“That’s marvelous, Ralph. You’re a genius.” She took his hand and shook it wildly. “By the way, this is Mr. Archer.”

“The non-genius,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

Ralph flushed. “Actually it was terribly easy to do. The Lashman painting was sitting out on one of the worktables, propped up against the wall. You’d almost think it was looking for me instead of I for it. It virtually leaped right out at me.”

Betty turned to me. “Ralph has found another painting of that same blond model. One by a different painter.”

“So I gathered. May I see it?”

“You certainly may,” Ralph said. “The beauty of it is that Simon Lashman should be able to tell you who she is.”

“Is he in town?”

“No. He lives in Tucson. We should have a record of his address. We’ve bought several of his paintings over the years.”

“Right now, I’d rather look at the one in the basement.”

Ralph unlocked a door. The three of us went downstairs and along a windowless corridor that reminded me of jails I had known. The workroom where Ralph took me was also windowless, but whitely lit by fluorescent tubes in the ceiling.

The picture on the table was a full-length nude. The woman looked much older than she had in the Biemeyer painting. There were marks of pain at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her breasts were larger, and they drooped a little. Her entire body was less confident.

Betty looked from the sorrowful painted face to mine, almost as if she were jealous of the woman.

She said to Ralph, “How long ago was this painted?”

“Over twenty years. I checked the file. Lashman called it Penelope, by the way.”

“She’d be really old now,” Betty said to me. “She’s old enough in the picture.”

“I’m no spring chicken myself,” I said.

She flushed and looked away as if I’d rebuffed her.

I said to Ralph, “Why would the picture be sitting out on the table like this? It isn’t where it’s usually kept, is it?”

“Of course not. One of the staff must have set it out.”

“This morning?”

“That I doubt. There wasn’t anyone down here this morning before me. I had to unlock the door.”

“Who was down here yesterday?”

“Several people, at least half a dozen. We’re preparing a show.”

“Including this picture?”

“No. It’s a show of Southern California landscapes.”

“Was Fred Johnson down here yesterday?”

“As a matter of fact, he was. He put in quite a lot of time sorting through the paintings in the storage room.”

“Did he tell you what he was after?”

“Not exactly. He said he was looking for something.”

“He was looking for this,” Betty said abruptly.

She had forgotten her jealousy of the painted woman, if that is what it had been. Excitement colored her cheekbones. Her eyes were bright.

“Fred is probably on his way to Tucson.” She clenched her fists and shook them in the air like an excited child. “Now if I could get Mr. Brailsford to pay my travel expenses—”

I was thinking the same thing about Mr. Biemeyer. But before I approached Biemeyer I decided to try to make a phone call to the painter Lashman.

Ralph got me the painter’s number and address out of the file, and left me alone at the desk in his own office.

I dialed Lashman’s house in Tucson direct.

A hoarse reluctant voice answered, “Simon Lashman speaking.”

“This is Lew Archer calling from the Santa Teresa Art Museum. I’m investigating the theft of a picture. I understand you painted the picture of Penelope in the museum.”

There was a silence. Then Lashman’s voice creaked like an old door opening: “That was a long time ago. I’m painting better now. Don’t tell me someone thought that picture was worth stealing.”

“It hasn’t been stolen, Mr. Lashman. Whoever painted the stolen picture used the same model as you used for Penelope”

“Mildred Mead? Is she still alive and kicking?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t seen her in some years. She’d be an old woman by now. We’re all getting older.” His voice was becoming fainter. “She may be dead.”

“I hope not. She was a beautiful woman.”

“I used to think that Mildred was the most beautiful woman in the Southwest.” His voice had become stronger, as if the thought of her beauty had stimulated him. “Who painted the picture you’re talking about?”

“It’s been attributed to Richard Chantry.”

“Really?”

“The attribution isn’t certain.”

“I’m not surprised. I never heard that he used Mildred as a model.” Lashman was silent for a moment. “Can you describe the picture to me?”

“It’s a very simple nude in plain colors. Someone said it showed the influence of Indian painting.”

“A lot of Chantry’s stuff did, in his Arizona period. But none of it is particularly good. Is this one any good?”

“I don’t know. It seems to be causing a lot of excitement.”

“Does it belong to the Santa Teresa museum?”

“No. It was bought by a man named Biemeyer.”

“The copper magnate?”

“That’s correct. I’m investigating the theft for Biemeyer.”

“To hell with you, then,” Lashman said, and hung up.

I dialed his number again. He said, “Who is this?”

“Archer. Please hold on. There’s more involved than the theft of a picture here. A man named Paul Grimes was murdered in Santa Teresa last night. Grimes was the dealer who sold the picture to Biemeyer. The sale and the murder are almost certainly connected.”

Lashman was silent again. Finally he said, “Who stole the picture?”

“An art student named Fred Johnson. I think he may be on his way to Tucson with it now. And he may turn up on your doorstep.”

“Why me?”

“He wants to find Mildred and see who painted her. He seems to be obsessed with the painting. In fact, he may be off his rocker entirely, and he has a young girl traveling with him.” I deliberately omitted the fact that she was Biemeyer’s daughter.

“Anything else?”

“That’s the gist of it.”

“Good,” he said. “I am seventy-five years old. I’m painting my two-hundred-and-fourteenth picture. If I stopped to attend to other people’s problems, I’d never get it finished. So I am going to hang up on you again, Mr. whatever-your-name-is.”