"That would be Richard," I said.
Lashman nodded. "He grew up into a pretty good painter. I have to admit that, even if I hated his father. Richard Chantry had a real gift, but he didn't use it to the full. He lacked the endurance to stay the course. In this work, you really need endurance." Leaning into the afternoon light from the window, his face bunched, he looked like a metal monument to that quality.
"Do you think Richard Chantry is alive?"
"Young Fred Johnson asked me the same question. I'll give you the same answer I gave him. I think Richard is probably dead-as dead as his brother is-but it hardly matters. A painter who gives up his work in mid-career, as Richard apparently did-he might as well be dead. I expect to die myself the day that I stop working." The old man's circling mind kept returning with fascination and disgust to his own mortality. "And that will be good riddance to bad rubbish, as we used to say when I was a boy."
"What happened to Felix Chantry's other son by Mildred-the illegitimate brother?"
"William? He died young. William was the one I knew and cared about. He and his mother lived with me, off and on, for some years. He even used my name while he was going to art school here in Tucson. But he took his mother's name when he went into the army. He called himself William Mead, and that was the name he was using when he died."
"Was he killed in the war?"
Lashman said quietly, "William died in uniform, but he was on leave when it happened. He was beaten to death and his body left in the desert, not very far from where his mother lives now."
"Who killed him?"
"That was never established. If you want more information, I suggest you get in touch with Sheriff Brotherton in Copper City. He handled the case, or mishandled it. I never did get the full facts of the murder. When Mildred came back from identifying William's body, she didn't say a word for over a week. I knew how she felt. William wasn't my son, and I hadn't seen him for a long time, but he felt like a son to me."
The old man was silent for a moment, and then went on: "I was on my way to making a painter of William. As a matter of fact, his early work was better than his half brother Richard's, and Richard paid him the compliment of imitation. But it was William who became food for worms."
He swung around to face me, angrily, as if I had brought death back into his house. "I'll be food for worms myself before too long. But before I am, I intend to paint one more picture of Mildred. Tell her that, will you?"
"Why don't you tell her yourself?"
"Perhaps I will."
Lashman was showing signs of wanting to be rid of me before the afternoon light failed. He kept looking out the window. Before I left, I showed him my photograph of the picture that Fred had taken from the Biemeyers.
"Is that Mildred?"
"Yes, it is."
"Can you tell who painted it?"
"I couldn't be sure. Not from a small black-and-white photograph."
"Does it look like Richard Chantry's work?"
"I believe it does. It looks something like my early work, too, as a matter of fact." He glanced up sharply, half serious, half amused. "I didn't realize until now that I might have influenced Chantry. Certainly whoever did this painting had to have seen my early portraits of Mildred Mead." He looked at the painted head on the easel as if it would confirm his claim.
"You didn't paint it yourself, did you?"
"No. I happen to be a better painter than that."
"A better painter than Chantry?"
"I think so. I didn't disappear, of course. I've stayed here and kept at my work. I'm not as well known as the disappearance artist. But I've outstayed him, by God, and my work will outstay his. This picture I'm doing now will outstay his."
Lashman's voice was angry and young. His face was flushed. In his old age, I thought, he was still fighting the Chantrys for the possession of Mildred Mead.
He picked up a brush and, holding it in his hand as if it were a weapon, turned back to his unfinished portrait.
XIX
I drove south and then east across the desert, through blowing curtains of evening. The traffic was comparatively thin and I made good time. By nine o'clock I was in Copper City, driving past Biemeyer's big hole in the ground. It looked in the fading evening light like the abandoned playground of a race of giants or their children.
I found the sheriff's station and showed my photostat to the captain in charge. He told me that Sheriff Brotherton could be found in a substation north of the city, near his mountain home. He got out a map and showed me how to get there.
I drove north toward the mountains. They had been built by bigger giants than the ones who dug Biemeyer's hole. As I approached the mountains, they took up more and more of the night sky.
I skirted their southeastern end on a winding road that ran between the mountains on my left and the desert on my right. Other traffic had dwindled away. I had begun to wonder if I was lost when I came to a cluster of buildings with lights in them.
One was the sheriff's substation. The others were a small motel and a grocery store with a gas pump in front of it. There were a number of cars, including a couple of sheriff's cars, parked on the paved area in front of the buildings.
I added my rented car to the line of parked cars and went into the substation. The deputy on duty looked me over carefully and finally admitted that the sheriff was next door in the grocery store. I went there. The back of the store was dim with cigar smoke. Several men in wide-brimmed hats were drinking beer from cans and playing pool on a table with a patched and wrinkled top. The heat in the place was oppressive.
A sweating bald man in a once-white apron came toward me. "If it's groceries you want, I'm really closed for the night."
"I could use a can of beer. And a wedge of cheese?"
"I guess I can handle that. How much cheese?"
"Half a pound."
He brought me the beer and cheese. "That will be a dollar and a half."
I paid him. "Is Chantry Canyon anywhere near here?"
He nodded. "Second turn to the left-that's about a mile north of here. Go on up about four miles until you hit a crossroads. Turn left, another couple of miles or so, and you'll be in the canyon. Are you with the people that's taken it over?"
"What people do you mean?"
"I forget what they call themselves. They're fixing up the old house, planning to make it some kind of religious settlement." He turned toward the back of the store and raised his voice: "Sheriff? What do those people call themselves that took over Chantry Canyon?"
One of the pool players leaned his cue against the wall and came toward us, his polished boots kicking his shadow ahead of him. He was a man in his late fifties, with a gray military-style mustache. A sheriff's badge glinted on his chest. His eyes had a matching glint.
"Society of Mutual Love," he said to me. "Is that who you're looking for?"
"I wasn't. I was looking for Mildred Mead." I showed him my photostat.
"You're in the wrong state, Mister. Mildred sold out about three months ago and took off for California. She told me she couldn't stand the loneliness any more. I told her she had friends here, and she has, but she wanted to spend her last days with her folks in California."
"Where in California?"
"She didn't say." The sheriff looked uneasy.
"What was the name of her folks?"
"I don't know."
"Did she mean relatives?"
"Mildred didn't tell me. She was always close-mouthed about her family. I had to tell the same thing to the young couple that came through here earlier today."