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.
chapter 10
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 likea 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
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.
chapter 10
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 likea 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
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