Free One Fearful Yellow Eye by John D. MacDonald Page A

woman might be capable of some sort of trickery."
    "How was your relationship with your father the last year of his life?"
    "Unfortunate. The Doyle person poisoned his mind against his own children. We saw him a few times, of course. He seemed pleasant but... remote. Not terribly interested in what we were doing. Oh, he was a lot of help to me with the wedding, and later with the divorce from Gadge.
    Actually Jeanie-Roger's wife-seemed to get along with him better than we did. She'd stop with the kids. Daddy enjoyed seeing his grandchildren."
    "Gloria Geis claims that all she gets from the estate is the insurance policy that brings her in less than five thousand a year."
    "A lovely smokescreen. That's what I think."
    "Maybe that nurse blackmailed your father."
    "Stanyard? Janice Stanyard? Nonsense!"
    "Actually, since you couldn't have touched the principal, your inheritance would have been just the seventy-five hundred a year, right?"
    "Meaning I shouldn't care so much about it? Mr. McGee, I do not like to be cheated. The amount is not the point at issue. I can get along without it, of course. My alimony's four times that, and I do sell many of my paintings, regardless of your opinion of my work."
    "And there's an income from the gallery?"
    "A small one. My divorce was final about... fourteen months. There was a settlement and the alimony agreement, and at Daddy's suggestion John Andrus advised me on handling the settlement money. I bought the building where my apartment is, and I bought some good blue-chip stocks, invested in the gallery, and put what was left in a savings account. I can get along nicely, thank you. But why should that make me feel indifferent about someone else having something Daddy intended I should have?"
    "Is Roger doing as well?"
    "Better, if anything. Jeanie has her own money. And Roger is very good with money, very shrewd. But he doesn't like being cheated any better than I do. Here we are."
    The sign on the door said the gallery was closed. As she was looking for the key in her purse Mark Avanyan opened the door for us. When we went in, he gestured toward the dog tableau, gave a loud theatrical sigh, and turned away. Though small, the gallery was well-lighted, attractive, pleasantly designed not to detract from any work being shown. Kirstarian stood with his back toward us, arms folded, and he was as motionless as all his white muslin people. They made an eerie effect, white mummies frozen at some moment of action. The form was entirely derivative, of course. A movable spot on one of the ceiling tracks shone down upon the large dogs. Mark had not reported inaccurately.
    Kirstarian turned very slowly to face us. I was astonished to see how young his face and his eyes Page 32

    were in that small area not obscured by the huge, untrimmed black beard. He wore the kind of black suit favored by European intellectuals, and I had thought from the shape of him that he was at least middle-aged. But he was merely a plump young man with bad posture.
    "Avanyan," he said in a slow and heavy voice, "is incurably middle-class. He is a silly little tradesman and this is his silly little shop. Perhaps, Mrs. Trumbill, you have more integrity."
    Heidi stared at the muslin sculpture, fists on her hips. "This is a necessary statement?" she asked.
    "An expression of eternal relationships. Yes."
    "Dear Jesus," whispered Mark Avanyan, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
    I broke the impasse by saying, "I think it's fabulous, Mr. Kirstarian." I caught his hand and pumped it
    "Thank you, sir. But, please, not mister. Just Kirstarian."
    "Let me give you my card," I said. I had managed to turn him and position him perfectly. I fumbled in my wallet and dropped several cards. "Oops!" said I, and ducked for them as they were still fluttering down, and put my right foot crosswise, an inch behind the heels of his shabby black shoes. As I straightened up, I managed to nudge him in the chest with my shoulder. He teetered, waved his