the highway and sat in his car for a few minutes thinking.
He had been relieved yesterday afternoon when he found the gallery locked and Glen Palmer apparently gone for the day. He had considered driving out to Sod Beach but had quickly dismissed the idea, telling himself that he had tried to follow Whalen’s orders but had been unable to locate Palmer. He had known, of course, the real reason he hadn’t driven on out to the beach. He wasn’t looking forward to questioning Palmer. In fact, he was dreading it. But now, seeing the door to the gallery standing open and an array of paintings propped neatly against the front of the building, he knew he could not put it off. Harn would be on him first thing this morning, wanting to know what Glen Palmer had had to say, and Chip wasn’t about to report that he had been unable to locate Palmer.
He got out of the car, slammed the door moodily, and started toward the gallery. Suddenly a picture caught his eye and he paused to look at it. It was an oil painting of the old Baron house out on Sod Beach, and at first Chip was unable to figure out exactly what it was that had caught his attention. Then he realized it was something about the house itself. A shadow behind one of the windows, a shadow that came from within the house, as if someone were standing just out of sight but the artist had somehow captured the essence of his presence. For a second Chip was almost sure that he could make out the figure, and felt a shudder of recognition, but when he looked more closely, it was just a shadow.
He examined the rest of the paintings. They were good. Unconsciously he loosened his tie as he went into the gallery.
Glen Palmer glanced up from the display case he was staining and felt a wave of hostility pass through him as he recognized Chip Connor. He stood up and tried to smile.
“Don’t tell me I’ve broken the law now,” he said.
“Not as far as I know,” Chip replied. “I was just looking at the pictures. Are they yours?”
“Every single one of them, unless you’d like to buy one. In that case it would be yours.”
“I meant did you paint them?” Chip said self-consciously.
“Yes, I did.”
“That one of the old Baron house …” Chip began. He wasn’t sure how to put his question, so he let it drop.
“It’s two hundred dollars,” Glen said. “Including the frame.”
“Too much for me,” Chip said ruefully. “But there’s something about it. This might sound dumb, but who’s in the house?”
Glen suddenly smiled and felt some of his initial hostility drain away. “You noticed that? You’ve got a sharp eye.”
Chip ignored the compliment and repeated the question. “When I first glanced at the picture I thought I recognized the person in it, but when I looked more closely, there isn’t anybody. Only a shadow. I was just wondering who you had in mind when you put the shadow in.”
Glen looked appraisingly at Chip and wondered what had prompted the question. He remembered painting the picture several weeks earlier, remembered thinking it was almost finished when suddenly he had, almost without thinking, put the shadow in the window. After he’d done it he’d realized that it belonged there. He still wasn’t sure why.
“What makes you ask?” he countered.
Chip shrugged uncomfortably. He was making a fool of himself. “I don’t know. It’s just that I thought—well, for a second I thought it was Harn. Harney Whalen.”
Glen frowned slightly, then his expression cleared. “Well, that seems natural enough. It’s his house, isn’t it? But I didn’t have anyone in mind. I guess it’s whoever you want it to be.”
Chip shifted his weight and wondered how to come to the point of his visit—the point that Harney Whalen had ordered. He decided to stall for a while.
“Are you selling much?”
“Nothing so far. But this is the first day I’ve displayed anything and it’s still early. I should think hordes of customers will be stampeding in any minute now.”
“Not much traffic this time of year,” Chip commented. “And most people don’t stop here anyway.”
“It should pick up next month. I just thought I’d put some things out in case someone drove by. And it worked,” he said, brightening. “You stopped.”
Chip nodded and again shifted his weight. Glen was suddenly very sure that Chip had not stopped because of the pictures—there was something