There was one puzzling thing in the room, besides the pictures. The wooden doorframe was scarred with a row of deep round indentations, four of them. They were new, and about on a level with my eyes. They looked as if an incredible fist had struck the wood a superhuman blow.
“He isn’t in his room,” the girl said from the doorway. Her voice was very carefully controlled.
“Maybe he got up early.”
“His bed hasn’t been slept in. He’s been out all night.”
“I wouldn’t worry. He’s an adult after all.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t always act like one.” Some feeling buzzed under her calm tone. I couldn’t tell if it was fear or anger. “He’s twelve years older than I am, and still a boy at heart. A middle-aging boy.”
“I know what you mean. I was his unofficial keeper for a while. I guess he’s a genius, or pretty close to it, but he needs somebody to tell him to come in out of the rain.”
“Thank you for informing me. I didn’t know.”
“Now don’t get mad at me.”
“I’m sorry. I suppose I’m a little upset.”
“Has he been giving you a bad time?”
“Not really. Not lately, that is. He’s come down to earth since he got engaged to Alice. But he still makes the weirdest friends. He can tell a fake Van Gogh with his eyes shut, literally, but he’s got no discrimination about people at all.”
“You wouldn’t be talking about me? Or am I having ideas of reference?”
“No.” She smiled again. I liked her smile. “I guess I acted terribly suspicious when I walked in on you. Some pretty dubious characters come to see him.”
“Anyone in particular?” I said it lightly. Just above her head I could see the giant fist-mark on the doorframe.
Before she could answer, a siren bayed in the distance. She cocked her head. “Ten to one it’s for me.”
“Police?”
“Ambulance. The police sirens have a different tone. I’m an X-ray technician at the hospital, so I’ve learned to listen for the ambulance. And I’m on call this morning.”
I followed her into the hall. “Hugh’s show opens tonight. He’s bound to come back for that.”
She turned at the opposite door, her face brightening. “You know, he may have spent the night working in the gallery. He’s awfully fussy about how his pictures are hung.”
“Why don’t I phone the gallery?”
“There’s never anybody in the office till nine.” She looked at her unfeminine steel wristwatch. “It’s twenty to.”
“When did you last see him?”
“At dinner last night. We ate early. He went back to the gallery after dinner. He said he was only going to work a couple of hours.”
“And you stayed here?”
“Until about eight, when I was called to the hospital. I didn’t get home until quite late, and I thought he was in bed.” She looked at me uncertainly, with a little wrinkle of doubt between her straight eyebrows. “Could you be cross-questioning me?”
“Sorry. It’s my occupational disease.”
“What do you do in real life?”
“Isn’t this real?”
“I mean now you’re out of the army. Are you a lawyer?”
“A private detective.”
“Oh. I see.” The wrinkle between her eyebrows deepened. I wondered what she’d been reading.
“But I’m on vacation.” I hoped.
A phone burred behind her apartment door. She went to answer it, and came back wearing a coat. “It was for me. Somebody fell out of a loquat tree and broke a leg. You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Archer.”
“Wait a second. If you’ll tell me where the art gallery is, I’ll see if Hugh’s there now.”
“Of course, you don’t know San Marcos.”
She led me to the French windows at the rear end of the hall. They opened on a blacktop parking space which was overshadowed on the far side by a large stucco building, the shape of a flattened cube. Outside the windows was a balcony from which a concrete staircase slanted down to the parking lot. She stepped outside and pointed to the stucco cube:
“That’s the gallery. It’s no problem to find, is it? You can take a shortcut down the alley to the front.”
A tall young man in a black leotard was polishing a red convertible in the parking lot. He struck a pose, in the fifth position, and waved his hand:
“Bonjour, Marie.”
“Bonjour, my phony Frenchman.” There was an edge of contempt on her good humor. “Have you seen Hugh this morning?”
“Not I. Is the prodigal missing again?”
“I wouldn’t say missing–”
“I was wondering where your car was. It’s not in the garage.” His voice was much too musical.
“Who’s he?” I asked her in an undertone.
“Hilary Todd. He runs the art shop downstairs. If the car’s gone, Hugh can’t be at the gallery. I’ll have to take a taxi to the hospital.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“I wouldn’t think of it. There’s a cabstand across the street.” She added over her shoulder: “Call me at the hospital if you see Hugh.”
I went down the stairs to the parking lot. Hilary Todd was still polishing the hood of his convertible, though it shone like a mirror. His shoulders were broad and packed with shifting muscle. Some of the ballet boys were strong and could be dangerous. Not that he was a boy, exactly. He had a little round bald spot that gleamed like a silver dollar among his hair.
“Bonjour,” I said to his back.
“Yes?”
My French appeared to offend his ears. He turned and straightened. I saw how tall he was, tall enough to make me feel squat, though I was over six feet. He had compensated for the bald spot by growing sideburns. In combination with his liquid eyes, they gave him a Latin look. Pig Latin.
“Do you know Hugh Western pretty well?”
“If it’s any concern of yours.”
“It is.”
“Now why would that be?”
“I asked the question, sonny. Answer it.”
He blushed and lowered his eyes, as if I had been reading his evil thoughts. He stuttered a little. “I – I – well, I’ve lived below him for a couple of years. I’ve sold a few of his pictures. Why?”
“I thought you might know where he is, even if his sister doesn’t.”
“How should I know where he is? Are you a policeman?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not at all, you mean?” He regained his poise. “Then you have no right to take this overbearing attitude. I know absolutely nothing about Hugh. And I’m very busy.”
He turned abruptly and continued his polishing job, his fine useless muscles writhing under the leotard.
I walked down the narrow alley which led to the street. Through the cypress hedge on the left, I caught a glimpse of umbrella tables growing like giant multicolored mushrooms in a restaurant patio. On the other side was the wall of the gallery, its white blankness broken by a single iron-barred window above the level of my head.
The front of the gallery was Greek-masked by a high-pillared porch. A broad flight of concrete steps rose to it from the street. A girl was standing at the head of the steps, half leaning on one of the pillars.
She turned towards me, and the slanting sunlight aureoled her bare head. She had a startling kind of beauty: yellow hair, light hazel eyes, brown skin. She filled her tailored suit like sand in a sack.
“Good morning.”
She pretended not to hear me. Her right foot was tapping the pavement impatiently. I crossed the porch to the high bronze door and pushed. It didn’t give.