THE KITCHEN PHONE started jangling just as consciousness returned and my eyes popped open. Escott caught it on the third ring and I could tell by his end of the conversation that it was Bobbi. I threw on a bathrobe and decided to spare his nerves and walk up the basement steps in the regular way. He handed over the earpiece and went back to the front room to finish listening to his radio program.
Bobbi was anything but calm. "That rat backed out!" she stated, her voice vibrating with fury. "He called me up this afternoon to call off the sittings."
She'd said enough for me to identify the rat in question. "What happened? Did he say why?"
"He just said he tried and couldn't get into it, after all, some stuff about not being ready to get back to painting yet."
"That's ridiculous, after the way he was last night?"
"I know. First he can't wait to start, now he dumps the whole thing. What's the matter with the man?"
The thought flashed through my head that Barb Steler had remembered our talk last night and somehow made trouble with Adrian. It was worry making, but extremely unlikely. I'd been very careful with her. "Give me time to dress and I'll pick you up. We'll go over for a little talk and try to straighten things out."
"Are you sure you want me along? I feel like strangling him."
"Fine, I'll probably help."
Escott's voice drifted in after I hung up. "Problem?" he asked casually.
I shoved my hands in the robe's pockets and hunched into the front room. He was at his ease on the long sofa and stretched out a lazy arm to turn the radio down. I spent a minute or so explaining about the portrait commission and Adrian's sudden refusal of it.
He cocked a philosophical eyebrow. "Artistic temperament, perhaps? Perhaps not. He's probably far too professional to indulge in such games."
"I don't know. I'm taking Bobbi over to find out."
"A suggestion?"
"Yeah?"
"Take along your receipt-just in case you can't change his mind." His hand swung back to the volume dial again.
With him it was a suggestion with double meaning, a nudge tor my conscience to kick in, as if it needed much help. I had been thinking of influencing Adrian, but recognized with some sourness that Escott had a point, at least for the moment.
Bobbi was dressed for war in a severe black suit with a slash of bloodred color on her compressed lips. She was already waiting in the lobby, and as soon as my car stopped she shot out and yanked the door open.
"I'm mad," she said, quite unnecessarily. Anyone in a fifty-yard radius could figure it out easily enough.
"We'll see what's going on."
"He chickened out, that's what I think." She crossed her arms and glared out the front window. "And it's just not fair."
I got the car rolling again and listened as she talked herself down from a long afternoon of anger and frustration. By the time we reached Adrian's she'd calmed somewhat and was willing to hear his side of things, if he had one.
He took his time answering the door and there was a change in him. The relaxed face we'd seen last night had been replaced by the guarded go-to-hell-and-so-what expression I'd noted at the party. It took Bobbi by surprise; she was all wound up to ask an obvious question or two, but one look and she knew it was a lost cause.
He let us into the entryway, but no farther. On a table rested the envelope with the money, which he handed to me, meeting my eyes, expecting a reproach and not caring.
"I can't really explain it," he said. "I just know I can't do the job, after all."
"Why not?"
He'd been ready for that question, and the answer came out easily enough. "Do you ever get a writer's block, if that's what you call it? I've the same thing, but for painting."
It wasn't something I could argue with; you can't force a person to create against their will. You also can't ask them why when they don't want to talk. I couldn't, not with Bobbi looking on. I gave him his receipt without another word. He stared at it, something crossing his face as if it were the end of the world, then shoved the piece of paper into his pocket.
"I'm sorry to have put you both to so much trouble," he said tonelessly. He was saying what was expected of him; whether he meant it or not was anyone's guess.
Bobbi shot me a brief look of alarm, her instincts were doing overtime. I nodded back, we'd talk later.
Adrian opened the door for us and we were back on the porch with it closing quietly behind. I heard his steps retreating deep into the house.
"We sure read him the riot act, didn't we?" she said. "He looked positively sick."
"He was like that when I first met him, but he perked up when Sandra was around."
"You think they had a fight?"
"You think it's really our business?"
"No, but I'd like to find out."
We got into the car and I drove half a block and parked by a small neighborhood grocery at the corner. "Would you mind waiting here for a little while? I want to go back and check on him?"
"Because he might do something?" Apparently, she had the same idea about suicide as I did.
"I just want to check." And make sure there were no dangling ropes or sleeping pills within reach. Bobbi said she'd be all right and I got out and walked back down the street, trying not to look conspicuous. It still felt as though every window had a face in it and that every barking dog was reacting to me alone. Passing under an especially large tree, its trunk thick with shadow, I disappeared.
Adrian's house was exactly on my left. I willed myself in that direction and pushed against the light wind until stopped by a wall of wood. I pressed harder and was through the wall, floating in the still air of his front room and drifting around to find a safe place to solidify. Invisibility is not as much fun as you'd think: with my sight gone and my hearing a joke, all I had was extended touch, which could be deceptive. After a minute of covering the four corners and not getting any sense of another presence, I decided to risk it and materialize.
The risk paid off, for the room was empty and dark. I listened hard and could just pick up the sound of his breathing elsewhere. Cautious and as silent as possible, I edged into the hall. The rooms that were in view were also dark, except for the kitchen, which had a small light burning wanly over the stove. Beyond the kitchen was his studio.
I vanished again and floated in. He seemed to be lying on the couch. By moving close I could tell which way he was facing and was able to get behind him and out of his line of sight. I solidified in a crouch, though, just in case I threw a shadow from the banks of windows behind me.
The only light came from a small work lamp caged from one of his tables. Its gooseneck was twisted so the illumination fell on a canvas clamped onto his easel. It was a portrait of Celia Adrian. The newspaper photo had been a decent likeness at least of how she looked-Adrian had recorded who she had been. The style was the same as Barb Steler's portrait, but more mature and assured.
I saw guarded happiness in the blue eyes, a hint of selfishness around the mouth, and an unearthly beauty in every stroke of his brush. It was truth and idealization all at once. Her faults were there, but accepted as part of the whole. He'd loved her dearly, but not blindly.
The figure on the couch moved only a little. He was smoking slowly, thoughtfully, and I could spend all night speculating on those thoughts. For now he didn't seem on the verge of doing away with himself or anyone else. My curiosity was satisfied to some extent, but with Bobbi waiting, there was no time for a more thorough investigation. Maybe later I could pay him a less hurried visit.
She'd left the car for the grocery. Through the sign-covered windows I could see her nodding and listening to the middle-aged woman behind the counter. After a few minutes Bobbi picked up her package and joined me.
"You're not the only one who's a detective," she said, sliding into the car.
"I'm only an assistant to a private agent. You call Charles a detective and he'll come out in hives."
"Whatever. I got the lady inside talking about Alex and his wife's death."
"So was it suicide or murder?"
"About half and half. She used to wait on his wife, 'a tall, pretty lady who'd give you the time of day when you asked,' and can't imagine she would have done such a wicked thing. On the other hand, living with an artist can't be all that easy."
"Did you ask her about the day when it happened?"
"She said she saw the ambulance and wondered what the fuss was about and was terribly shocked to learn Mrs. Adrian was dead. She'd read all the papers and when they started saying Alex murdered her she was ready to believe it. He came into her store about a week later and she was ready to throw him out until she saw his face."
"Like death warmed over?"
"You heard?"
"He had the same effect on us tonight, remember?"
"Vividly. I was ready to kill him and then it just seemed so useless, there was nothing there to argue with."
We both nodded in silent agreement. "What now?"
She looked surprised. "We go see Sandra and Evan. I didn't buy this just for my voice, you know." She shifted the bag and I caught the subtle clink of beer bottles inside.
Our knock on Evan's door got no answer, but I was sure I heard a voice and a soft thump.
"Think they're out?" Bobbi asked.
"Someone's there." I put an ear to the door but couldn't really distinguish much through it. We knocked louder and got no answer. "Maybe Francis came back to try and beat him up again, after all."
She tried the knob, but the door was locked. "The super might have a key-"
"You ever see my vanishing act?"
"Your what?"
"It makes Charles nervous and I didn't want to give you heart failure."
"You mean you can just... ?" She made vague gestures. I'd done it once before in her presence, but it had been dark and rainy and she may have missed it, having other things on her mind at the time.
"Yeah, wanna see?"
She was a game girl. "Okay..."
Then I wasn't there anymore. As though wrapped in cotton, I heard her gasp of surprise. I slipped inside, went solid, and unlocked the door. She jumped when it swung open, but her short blond hair wasn't quite on end.
Yeeps! How'd you do that? I thought you were supposed to turn into a fog or something."
I pointed an accusing finger. "You've been reading Stoker again, haven't you?"
"Never mind that, why'd you never tell me about this?"
"You never asked." But-" Shh, I want to listen."
Now that we were inside, neither of us had much trouble hearing things.
Somewhere in the back Evan laughed and a girl's voice responded, "That's right, now I'll hold it here and you shove it in."
Bobbi's mouth popped open and she blushed a bright red.
"No, not that way!" the girl complained. "Smoother...• get that flap as well."
Flap! Bobbi mouthed the word.
"It can wait a minute," said Evan. "I thought I heard something out front."
"You just don't want to do a little honest work," was the retort.
Evan strolled in wearing a baggy set of mustard yellow golf pants, red shoes, and orange-and-green argyle socks topped off by an ancient paint-smeared shirt. His surprise from seeing us quickly translated into a smile. "Jack! Bobbi! Welcome to my extremely humble home, come in."
"If we're interrupting anything-"
"Nan, it's too late for that or I'd have kicked you out. I thought I'd locked the door anyway, oh well. My friend Sally was just helping me with the linens. It seems I don't know how to make a proper hospital corner."
Sally also strolled in, a petite girl with rich brown hair and a lush figure under her light print dress. She was the maid Evan had been chatting with in the kitchen while his clothes dried. It looked as though the party hadn't been a total disaster for him, after all. Evan introduced us and Bobbi brought out the beer.
"This is great, what's the occasion?" he asked.
"Call it a homecoming gift," said Bobbi. "Where's Sandra?"
"Out somewhere, probably with Alex."
"We were just there, she wasn't with him."
Evan shrugged. "Shopping, then, or at one of her girlfriends' talking about shopping. She'll be back before long. It's all right, she doesn't like beer." He found an opener and popped some caps. Just in time I stopped him from wasting one on me.
"How was Alex when you left today?" I asked.
"Rancid as ever. Why?"
"Because he called Bobbi this afternoon and canceled the portrait commission.
When we went by he looked-"
"Like death warmed over," completed Bobbi.
"Really? You mean he decided not to do the painting, just like that?"
I nodded. "We thought you might have an idea why."
"Me?"
"Or Sandra. Did they have any disagreements, stuff like that?"
"No, pretty much the opposite, from what I could tell. They keep going the way they are and I'll have this rat palace all to myself in another month." Rat palace or not, he seemed very pleased with the prospect.
"Evan, I had an idea that Alex may have taken on the commission in order to help you out with Dimmy Wallace."
He shook his head. "He wouldn't have to do that, he's got plenty of savings. If I asked him for help he'd just give me the money but I haven't asked him for help.
Cheating the bookies is one thing, but Alex is my friend, more or less."
"He said he had a painter's block-"
"Not him... well, maybe him. There's a first time for everyone, I suppose."
"Sandra said he hadn't painted since his wife died."
"There's a difference between a block and just choosing not to work. He's been sitting around feeling sorry for himself and wondering if he could have made things different for Celia. You ask me, you should go back and give him a kick in the pants and tell him to paint."
"You really think he'd respond to that?"
"Of course he'd respond... but I'd want to be there to sec the fight." He looked like Sandra for a second with the impishness in his eyes. "This isn't like him, you know.
I've never known him to back out of a commission once the money's down. I really can't say what's wrong with him..."
"We could go back and ask this time," suggested Bobbi. "Could you come with us?"
He thought about it, but shook his head. "I'm not too comfortable about that; he's a friend, but this isn't really my business, after all. I'll be honest about things: if Alex turns down the commission, I might have a chance to take his place..."
If anyone else had said it they might have sounded grabby, but not Evan.
"Of course it won't be an Alex Adrian, and I can't charge his price, but it'd be the best I could do."
I shrugged reasonably. "We'll see what works out."
It was enough for him. "Great, now I've got to put on a cleaner shirt and walk Sally home."
"We can drive you-" I offered.
He held up a hand. "Thanks, but we really would like to walk. Why don't you take Bobbi to dinner in the meantime. She's looking a little peaked and you don't want to lose those skin tones."
Sally shifted and looked jealous until he put an arm around her and squeezed.
"Keep 'em enthralled, darling," he told her. "Show off some of my paintings." He ducked into the back of the flat for his shirt.
"I don't know if I can tell you much about them," Sally confessed.
"Paintings usually speak for themselves. If you have to explain them then the artist needs a new job." I was practically quoting what I'd learned from Sandra.
She smiled and laughed and led us to a corner of the room, where dozens of odd-sized canvases were stored vertically in a home-built shelving unit. We pulled out one after another and I got a pretty good idea why Evan wouldn't be making much money on his work. It was beautiful stuff, the colors were rich and all over, but for the most part you couldn't make out what they were representing.
He had a few of what I would call regular paintings. He could indeed please the public if he wished, but he was more comfortable creating his own inner world than recording the one around him. Bobbi discovered an especially large work and tilted it against the wall so she could stand back and get a good look. Sally joined her and both their faces were pinched with puzzlement. All I saw were swirls of fleshy pinks, darker reds, and other warm colors. It looked like another abstract to me. Evan came out, tucking in his shirt.
"That's my favorite, too, ladies."
"What's the title?" asked Bobbi, who was also trying not to ask what it was.
"No title, really, but it is a portrait of a dear old friend of mine. It represents his joy to be meeting another friend he likes very much."
"I don't really see it," said Sally.
"There's a trick to it, actually. You have to stand at a specific spot for the meaning to become clear." He put an arm around each of their shoulders and pulled them back about ten feet tram the canvas and stepped away. They stared at it, then suddenly broke into twin shrieks of laughter and outrage. Evan beamed.
I was about five feet from the painting and stepped behind the convulsing girls to get a look-and saw nothing but colors.
"Now you're too far away," he told me, and urged me forward another foot.
It said a lot for his technical skill as a painter that he was able to create such an effect. Too close, it was nothing but colors, too distant and it was more of the same.
Stand exactly ten feet away and you could see it for the large-scale and quite rude self-portrait it was.
"He's got very good manners and never fails to rise in the presence of a lovely lady. It's one of my best works," he admitted without a trace of modesty. In the case of this painting, modesty would have been totally out of place.
Bobbi turned down a second night at Mailman's, stating she was too hungry to wait for things to simmer. We found a less pretentious eatery and she made short work of a basic plate of meat and vegetables. This time I didn't bother pretending with a cup of coffee and watched her with enjoyment. She was still snickering about Evan's masterpiece.
"I don't know where he got the nerve to paint it."
"Perhaps he was inspired."
"It certainly explains the number of nudes he had."
"Offended?"
"Nab, that kind of stuff doesn't bother me, it just takes a little getting used to. I may take one of my girlfriends over, she might want to buy it."
"Who is she?"
"None of your business. She's a man-eater and you're the last person I want her to meet."
"What, you don't trust me?" I sounded wounded.
"I trust you, I also have to protect you. She runs through men like I run through silk stockings and leaves them lying around torn up and ready to be thrown away."
"You're more tidy than that."
"Stinker. What's the time?"
"Nine-ten."
"We better not leave it too late."
"I'm ready when you are."
"I know," she said with some smugness, which did wonders for my ego.
For the second time that night we pulled up to Adrian's house. His car was gone.
"A person could get tired of disappointments like this," Bobbi growled.
"Feel like waiting a while?"
"Like for a stakeout?"
"I dunno, I've never been on one of those before."
"Wonder why he left."
So did I, and her question hung uncomfortably in the air between us for the next few minutes.
A car turned down the street, its headlights flashing across the rearview mirror.
It slowed and swung into Adrian's driveway. He got out, a carton of cigarettes in his hand, glared at us, and slammed the door of his coupe. He seemed to debate whether he should ignore us and go on in the house or face us and get it over with. We got out of our car and saved him the trouble of deciding.
He waited until we were close enough for him not to have to raise his voice. Along the street curtains had twitched with the slam of the door.
"Yes?" Very polite and ice cold with irritation.
"We came from Evan's," I said.
He blinked, the opening didn't make sense and he had to shift mental gears trying to figure out what I was talking about.
"He said we should come back and kick you in the pants and tell you to start painting again."
He shook his head with exasperation. "Yes, I'm sure he did. Evan needs to learn to mind his own business." He moved past us and unlocked his front door, but indicated we would not be welcome past the threshold. "I've explained myself and tried to apologize. As far as I'm concerned the subject is closed."
Inside his house the phone started ringing, an excuse to leave us, which he gratefully seized. I was feeling pigheaded, though, and followed him inside, with Bobbi right behind. If it came down to it, I was prepared to put him under, even with her looking on. Hell, if we were intimate enough for sex she could survive watching me hypnotize someone.
He glared at us from the phone stand in the front hall, his attention divided by our presence and the need to hear the voice on the other end of the wire.
"What? Yes, what's wrong?" He focused on the phone, his glare shifting back to irritation. "No, I can't now... Then, tell me what it is-oh, all right. I'm on my way."
He dropped the receiver onto the cradle in disgust. "That was Evan," he said.
"There's some kind of trouble, but he won't say what. I have to leave now."
"Dimmy Wallace?"
He shrugged. "I don't know, but he was very upset." Without another word he pushed past us and held the door long enough for us to get out, then locked it and went to his car.
"Are we going, too?" asked Bobbi.
"Yeah, but if things get too hot, you stay in the car and keep down."
We piled into my Buick and followed him to Evan's house. I was annoyed at the interruption as well. Though I hadn't been able to pick up Evan's side of the conversation, some of the stress-filled tones of his voice had leaked out; enough to make me uneasy.
Evan was sitting on the steps outside, his hands hanging slack and his head down. Adrian was out of his car and striding up to him before I'd set my brakes. By the time I was out Adrian was already going up to the flat.
Bobbi got out with me. I checked both ends of the street, but didn't see anything remotely resembling a bookie's collector. We hurried up to Evan, who took no notice of our arrival. A strong fist closed around my gut and more than anything I wanted to take Bobbi and get out of there.
Evan began to shake his head. A thin keening sound rose from his huddled form and put my back hairs up. Bobbi looked from him to me, her face dead white with alarm.
"What . . ?"
I spread my hands a little and gestured at the house. Answers would be in there, not with Evan. We went inside and then I told Bobbi in no uncertain terms to stay on the bottom landing while I went up. She didn't argue and kept an eye on Evan.
The stairs creaked with each quick step. In other parts of the house the tenants made their noises of living: a baby gurgled somewhere in the back, on my left a radio blared an ad for a cold remedy. Drifting down from the floors above was the hiss and smell of frying cabbage and bacon. I could not sort out Adrian's individual sounds from the others yet.
The door to the Robley flat was wide open and the lights were on. Now I was able to focus down and heard Adrian's quiet breathing and nothing else. The background of the flat's front room was unchanged: Evan's portrait still leaned against a far wall and a few empty beer bottles cluttered a low table.
New details impressed themselves into the overall picture: some packages carelessly dropped on a chair, a glove on the table, another on the floor, her purse on its side, a tortoiseshell comb fallen from it.
Sandra was on her back in the center of the room, her head turned to one side, her eyes and mouth slightly open.
Adrian was on one knee next to her. He slowly looked up as I entered. He saw me and forgot me because the shock had firmly closed over him. His face was utterly blank and the physical wall I'd seen and felt once before was back, perhaps this time to stay. Walls had their uses, and shutting out unbearable pain was one of them.
He turned to her and with a steady hand gently stroked back a lock of her russet hair. Blood came away on his fingers, but he didn't seem to notice.