“How does Levering figure in it?” Terry asked abruptly.
“He doesn’t — except as a friend.”
“What makes you so certain the police won’t trace the portrait to you here?”
“Because they can’t.”
“What reason will Cynthia give for having the portrait at your apartment?”
“The best in the world. She took the portrait to me because she was proud of it. She wanted me to see it... and asked me to touch it up a little.”
“And left it with you?”
“Temporarily, yes.”
Terry slid his fingers up and down his glass, and said, “The police searched your apartment early this morning. They found that your bed hadn’t been slept in. They would also have noted that Mandra’s portrait wasn’t in your apartment at that hour. They want to question you, so they’re watching your apartment, and have been, ever since early this morning. The police will know exactly when that portrait was delivered, and by whom it was delivered.”
She gave a quick, gasping intake of her breath.
“Hadn’t thought of that?” he asked.
She shook her head, her eyes holding the helpless expression of a trapped animal.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Terry said. “Just how did the picture get there?”
“We took the canvas from the frame and rolled it up. George concealed it under his coat, I gave him the key to my apartment. He went in there, unfastened another canvas from its frame, and tacked on this portrait of Mandra. Then he slipped out.”
Terry shook his head. “Levering was taken to the office of the district attorney for questioning.”
“I know, Terry; but they let him go almost at once. He wasn’t there for more than fifteen minutes.”
“And you’ve heard from him since?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“By telephone. I phoned his place two or three times. When he answered I asked him where he’d been. He told me what had happened. I told him to make certain he wasn’t being followed and to come over here. Then I gave him the portrait and told him what he was to do.”
Terry said slowly, “I don’t trust Levering.”
Alma said bitterly. “I know you don’t! It’s unfair. He’s loyal to Cynthia and me, and he’d be loyal to you if you’d let him.”
Terry shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ve been sold, Alma.”
“What do you mean, Terry?”
“Not over an hour ago,” he said, “I saw that portrait. It was in the apartment of a woman who claimed to be Mandra’s widow, a woman who hates both you and Cynthia, a woman who claims that Cynthia murdered Jacob Mandra.”
Alma came up to her feet, slowly, as a prisoner might arise at the sound of an executioner’s approaching steps.
“Terry!” she cried.
He nodded.
She came to him, dropped to the floor at his feet, wrapped her arms round his knees. “Terry,” she said, “I’m frightened.”
He nodded gravely, making no attempt to reassure her with words in which neither could have had any confidence. “Let’s figure what happened,” he said. “There are two possibilities. Either Levering blundered, or after the police took the portrait they gave it to Mandra’s widow.”
“Thanks, Terry, for eliminating the possibility that Levering deliberately double-crossed us.”
They sat for several seconds in thoughtful silence.
“If Levering blundered, the police will soon be here,” he said. “Are you prepared for that, Alma?”
“Yes. I’m prepared for anything so far as I’m concerned. It’s Cynthia I’m worried about. I can take it. I’m not so certain about Cynthia. She’s just a kid, Terry.”
“No, Alma,” he said slowly, “she isn’t a kid. She’s a woman. She’s only three years younger than you are.”
“I know, Terry, but in spite of all that, she’s still a kid. Life hasn’t licked her yet.”
Terry’s eyes were serious. “You can’t stand between Cynthia and life. It won’t work.”
She looked up at him. “Terry,” she said, “life licked me. I don’t want it to lick Cynthia.”
“How did life lick you, Alma?”
“I don’t know. I guess that’s something one never knows. It’s not as though you could come to grips with life in a decisive battle. You can’t. Life undermines your defenses, a little at a time, as insidious as decay eating into a tooth, and the first thing you know, you’re beaten without even knowing there’s been a battle.”
He shook his head, the tips of his fingers gently smoothing the hair at her temples. “Perhaps,” he told her, “you paid too great a price for success.”
“What makes you think that?” she asked.
“Everyone does,” he told her, stroking her hair. “That is, everyone who concentrates on being successful. You see, Alma, life is a keenly competitive game. No matter what goal you strive to attain, there are millions who are also striving towards that same goal. Of those millions, there are hundreds of thousands who have more than average aptitude. It isn’t, therefore, so much a question of ability as adaptability. Those who win are the ones who are willing to make sacrifices that the others are not.”
“Do you mean that I should have been content to just drift through life?”
“No,” he told her, “it isn’t that, Alma. It goes farther back than that. It’s a question of the goal you picked.”
She looked up, caught and held his eyes. “Terry,” she said, “tell me all of it. I want to know. Life has licked me. Life has licked almost everyone I know; but it hasn’t licked you. I’ve tried to keep it from licking Cynthia — and now I’ve failed. She’s like a kitten chasing a piece of crumpled paper round the room. I’ve loved to sit and watch her. She’s had a complete disregard for the consequences of life, and I’ve wanted to keep her that way.
“You know, Terry, whenever you see a person who laughs his way through life, you can bank on it there’s someone in the background who’s taking the shocks, usually a mother or a father who’s too indulgent, or, as in Cynthia’s case, a sister.
“Cynthia’s always been getting into scrapes, and I’ve always been getting her out. And now she’s got into a scrape that... Well, I’m afraid I can’t get her out.”
“That bad?” he asked again.
She nodded, and for several silent seconds sat with her head resting on his knees. Then she said, “Go on, Terry, tell me how you’ve managed to keep all your spontaneity. You refuse to take life seriously, and yet, somehow, you respect it, as one respects a powerful adversary. You don’t underestimate it and you don’t worry about it. You’re still an adventurer — more so than when you went away.”
“Perhaps, Alma,” he said, slowly, “the trouble lies in selecting a goal. You wanted to be a successful painter. You wanted your success to be financial. You entered a keenly competitive field. You had a talent amounting almost to genius, but there were lots of others who had talent. You reached your goal because you made sacrifices. It’s the same way with the young doctors and the young lawyers, the young business men, everyone, in fact, who enters a keenly competitive struggle. The reason I haven’t sacrificed is because I’m not trying to achieve the same goal everyone else is.
“It’s difficult to explain so you’ll understand it, Alma. I heard of some ruins in a remote part of China, where there were gold and gems to be had for the taking. But a man could only get into the country if he went as a neophyte and attached himself to a certain monastery. So I went as a neophyte. I had no real intention of doing any studying. I only wanted to get the gems and get out.”
“Were the gems there?” she asked, her eyes wide with interest.