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Maybe you think that’s funny. My father has one. He keeps it away in a safe somewhere. But I’ve seen it several times. Not very big.” Frank cleared his throat and sat up. “But for pleasure—”
    That was what painting was all about, Tom thought, regardless of Picasso saying that paintings were to make war.
    “I like Vuillard and Bonnard. They’re cozy. This modern stuff, abstracts— Maybe one day I’ll understand it.”
    “So at least you had something in common with your father, you both liked paintings.— He took you to art exhibits?”
    “Well, I went. I mean, I liked them, yes. Since I was about twelve, I remember. But my father was in a wheelchair since I was about five. Someone shot at him, you know?”
    Tom nodded, realizing suddenly that John Pierson’s condition would have made it a strange life for Frank’s mother for the past eleven years.
    “All business, charming business,” Frank said cynically. “My father knew who was behind it, some other food company. Hired killer. But my father never tried to persecute— prosecute , because he knew he would only get more of the same. You know? That’s the way things are in the States.”
    Tom could imagine. “Try your cognac.” The boy picked it up, sipped, and winced. “Where’s your mother now?”
    “Maine, I suppose. Or maybe the New York apartment, I don’t know.”
    Tom wanted to press the matter again, to see if Frank would say something new. “Call her up, Frank. You must know both numbers. The phone’s right there.” It was on a table near the front door. “I’ll go upstairs so I won’t hear anything you’re saying.” Tom stood up.
    “I don’t want them to know where I am. ” Frank looked with steadier eyes at Tom. “I would call up a girl, if I could, but I can’t even let her know where I am.”
    “What girl?”
    “Teresa.”
    “She lives in New York?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why don’t you ring her up? Isn’t she worried? You don’t have to tell her where you are. I’ll still go upstairs—”
    But Frank was shaking his head, slowly. “She might be able to tell it comes from France. I can’t risk that.”
    Had he perhaps run away from the girl? “Did you tell Teresa you were going away?”
    “I told her I was thinking of taking a short trip.”
    “Did you have a quarrel with her?”
    “Oh, no. No.” A quiet, happy amusement spread over Frank’s face, a look of dreaming that Tom had not seen before. Then the boy looked at his wristwatch and stood up. “I’m sorry.”
    It was only eleven or so, but Tom knew Frank did not want Heloise to see him again. “Have you got a picture of Teresa?”
    “Oh, yes!” Again happiness shone in his face as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket for his billfold. “This one. My favorite. Even though it’s only a Polaroid.” He handed Tom a small square snapshot in a transparent envelope which just fit it.
    Tom saw a brown-haired girl with lively eyes, a mischievous smile with closed lips, eyes slightly narrowed. The hair was straight and shining, shortish, the face more full of fun than mischief, really, as if she had been snapped while dancing. “She has charm,” Tom said.
    Frank nodded, happy and wordless. “You don’t mind driving me back? These shoes are comfortable but—”
    Tom laughed. “Nothing easier.” Frank wore Gucci shoes, black moccasin-style of crinkly leather, well-shined now. His brown and tan tweed jacket, a Harris tweed, had an interesting diamond pattern that Tom might have chosen for himself. “I’ll see if madame is still awake and tell her I’m leaving and coming back. She sometimes gets disturbed by car sounds, but she is expecting Heloise. Use the downstairs loo, if you want.” Tom gestured toward a narrow door in the front hall.
    The boy went off to use it, and Tom walked through the kitchen to Mme. Annette’s door. Her light was off, he saw from a look at the crack under the door. Tom scribbled a note on the desk where the