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half-pints are better.”

chapter 7
    On my way uptown I stopped at the art museum, intending to ask for Fred. But the place was closed for the night.
    I drove on up to Olive Street. Darkness had spread like a branching tree across the lawns and yards, and lights were coming on in the old houses. The hospital was a great pierced box of light. I parked near the gabled house where the Johnsons lived and made my way up its broken steps to the front door.
    Fred’s father must have been listening on the other side of the door. He spoke before I had a chance to knock: “Who is that?”
    “Archer. I was here earlier today, looking for Fred.”
    “That’s right. I remember.” He sounded proud of the feat.
    “May I come in and talk to you for a minute, Mr. Johnson?”
    “Sorry, no can do. My wife locked the door.”
    “Where’s the key?”
    “Sarah took it with her to the hospital. She’s afraid I’ll go out in the street and get run over. But the fact is I’m completely sober. I’m so sober that it’s making me physically sick. She’s supposed to be a nurse, but little does she care.” His voice was fogged with self-pity.
    “Is there any way you can let me in? Through a window, maybe?”
    “She’d crucify me.”
    “How would she know? I’ve got some whisky with me. Could you use a couple of snorts?”
    His tone brightened. “Could I not. But how are you going to get in?”
    “I have some keys.”
    It was a simple old lock, and the second key that I tried opened it. I closed the door behind me, moving into the cramped hallway with some difficulty. Johnson’s thick body crowded mine. In the light of a dim overhead bulb, I could see that his face was working with excitement.
    “You said you had some whisky for me.”
    “Hold on for a minute.”
    “But I’m sick. You can see that I’m sick.”
    I opened one of my half-pint bottles. He drained it in one continuous shuddering swallow, and licked the mouth of the empty bottle.
    I felt like a pander. But the strong jolt of whisky didn’t seem to bother him at all. Instead of making him drunker, it seemed to improve his diction and delivery.
    “I used to drink Tennessee whisky in my palmy days. I drank Tennessee whisky and rode a Tennessee Walking Horse. That is Tennessee whisky, is it not?”
    “You’re right, Mr. Johnson.”
    “Just call me Jerry. I know a friend when I see one.” He set down the empty bottle on the first step of the staircase, put his hand on my shoulder, and leaned his weight on it. “I won’t forget this. What did you say your name was?”
    “Archer.”
    “And what do you do for a living, Mr. Archer?”
    “I’m a private investigator.” I opened my wallet and showed Johnson a photostat of my state license. “Some people in town hired me to trace a painting that they lost. It’s a portrait of a woman, probably by a well-known local painter named Richard Chantry. You’ve heard of him, I suppose.”
    He scowled with concentration. “I can’t say I have. You should take it up with my son Fred. That’s his department.”
    “I already have. Fred took the picture and brought it home.”
    “Here?”
    “So he told me this afternoon.”
    “I don’t believe it. Fred wouldn’t do a thing like that. He’s a good boy, he always has been. He never stole anything inhis life. The people at the art museum trust him. Everybody trusts him.”
    I interrupted Johnson’s alcoholic flow of words: “He claims he didn’t steal it. He said he brought it home to make some tests on it.”
    “What kind of tests are you talking about?”
    “I’m not sure. According to Fred, his idea was to find out how old the picture was. The artist who was supposed to have painted it disappeared a long time ago.”
    “Who was that?”
    “Richard Chantry.”
    “Yeah, I guess I have heard of him. They’ve got a lot of his pictures in the museum.” He rubbed his gray scalp as if to warm his memory. “Isn’t he supposed to be dead?”
    “Dead or