"I understand," said West. "But I didn't know there were any paintings there. Didn't even know there was anybody there."
"Sure there is," said the man. "There's Louis and—"
He lifted the bottle and took a snort.
"I got alcoholism," said the man. "Good thing, alcoholism. Keeps colds away. Can't catch a cold when you got alcoholism. Kills you quicker than a cold, though. Why, you might go on for years having colds—"
"Look," urged West, "you have to tell me about Pluto. About who's there. And the painting. How come you know about them?"
The eyes regarded him with drunken cunning.
"You'd have to do something for me. Couldn't give you information like that out of the goodness of my heart."
"Of course," agreed West. "Anything that you would like. You just name it."
"You got to take Annabelle out of here," the man told him. "Take her back where she belongs. It isn't any place for a girl like her. No fit life for her to lead. Living with a sodden wreck like me. Used to be a great man once ... yes, sir, a great man. It all came of looking for a bottle. One particular bottle. Had to sample all of them. Every last one. And when I sampled them, there was nothing else to do but drink them up. They'd spoil for sure if you let them stand around. And who wants a lot of spoiled liquor cluttering up the place?"
He took another shot.