CLINTON
                                                IDAHO
                                               

Vincent Mallory was average height with a bulging waist, olive skin, brown suspicious eyes and a large head almost bald except for a few grey strands. At eighty-one, he lived alone in Clinton. Visitors were shunned; no friends; no acquaintances, shut himself away to consider his last years.

     The youngest child of eleven, born to a Saskatoon, Canadian couple, he craved parental attention but received none. First to bed, last at the breakfast table; bullied at home; bullied at school; consistently bottom of his class in every grade; he was eight when his mother died. From that moment, his alcoholic father lost control of the family and Mallory's siblings ignored him.

     Mallory reacted quickly when he had the chance.

     At sixteen, he travelled west to Vancouver. Although lightly built, he worked as deckhand on ferry steamers sailing between Vancouver and Vancouver Island.

     Another young seaman, Terry Hogan, spent hours teaching Mallory photographic techniques. Mallory learned quickly; soon finding photography to be his forte. Organising people into groups for a camera shot gave him power. He now had authority, and loved the work.

     Saskatoon became a distant memory; he never spoke of it nor contacted his uncaring family members. Being free to operate as he wished, he left the boats and opened his first photographic business at a Vancouver downtown corner shop. Hogan joined him. For some months they had success and funds flowed in.

     Mallory saved carefully but Hogan spent heavily, gambling. Racehorses came nowhere; roulette numbers refused him luck; loose girls and booze gave his temper a sharp edge and moneylenders lured him to debt. With Hogan broke, they put the squeeze on Mallory, threatening violence.

     Mallory had an answer; he and Hogan left Vancouver in Mallory's small truck early the next morning with the photography business loaded in the rear. They headed east - to Hogan's home town - Allenby, Idaho. They set up business just off High Street. Mallory was settling in well, attracting custom, but Hogan gambled in the local saloons. When his money ran out he asked friends for cash, but by now, he was avoided.
 

     Hogan turned to Mallory asking financial help. Mallory was adamant: sorry, no loan - the business came first. Hogan festered resentment for several days and when his own father denied him help, Hogan returned to Vancouver, using Mallory's van. To avoid moneylenders, Hogan signed a boat trip to Sitka, and on arrival hit the gambling joints.

     He disappeared and all they found in a room at a fifth-rate sleaze hall was his Continuous Certificate of Discharge for Seamen book, with his photograph inside the back page.

     His ship sailed from Sitka without him.
 
     Working alone suited Mallory. He invested in a small shop on Allenby's High Street, and trade became brisk. Within two more years, he was affluent - and tight-fisted. Being prosperous gave him a healthy bank account, but friendships stayed at zero.

     At retirement, he moved to Clinton, where nobody would pester him for money. But the local youngsters quickly figured him and called him 'The Miser Who Lives Alone'.

     He seldom received visitors and a knock at the veranda door surprised him. Mallory's eyebrows twitched. Who could this be? He left his armchair and opened the door a few inches on the chain.

     "Mr Mallory?"

     "Yes."

     "I'm Jim Lennox, I telephoned you yesterday."

     "I don't know anything." The door started to close.

     "I think you do."

     "No, leave me alone."

     Lennox, with a foot in the doorway, brought up Amy's photograph for Mallory to see. "You took this photo. It has your Studio stamp on the back. It is a beautiful photograph, Mr Mallory, produced by you, a master of your profession. Could we discuss it?"

     Appreciation of his work pleased Mallory. He wanted more praise and opened the door another inch. "A police officer, you say?"

     "Yes, I am." Lennox produced his badge.

     Mallory slipped the door chain. "I can give you a few minutes. I was dozing when you knocked." He moved aside and was startled by Lennox's bulk. Fear tingled down his back. What did this man really want? Dressed in black, firm features, dark penetrating eyes, Lennox exuded physical and mental strength. The voice was soft baritone.

     Mallory detested strangers, being uncertain in their presence. Was this man really a police officer? Maybe Terry Hogan had given away Mallory's residence in Allenby. If he had talked, then it was easy for anyone to trace Mallory to Clinton.

     Trust Hogan and his big mouth.

     Lennox stood in the lounge, amazed. Large photographs covered the walls, and one, at least four feet by three feet, was unmistakably of Amy. He went to the picture and turned to Mallory. Who is this girl. Mallory shrugged indifference. Lennox placed Amy's photo next the enlargement. The poses matched. Mallory returned to the armchair. This photograph of Amy was not the only one he had, for in a room at the rear of the property hung a life-size, full-length photograph of Amy in bikini - and this stranger must not see it.

     Lennox asked did Mallory remember this girl and her name.

     Mallory said he had no recall.

     Lennox said, "You displayed this girl's photograph in your Allenby studio window."

     "Did I? I can't remember. It's so long ago."

     You lying bastard, Lennox thought. He turned over the photograph of Amy that Mrs Chalmers had given him and showed Mallory the date, 1959, and the partially visible studio stamp on the back. Had Amy returned the following year? Mallory said no. Lennox tried another angle. Did Mallory charge Amy a fee for the photograph or did he provide it free? Mallory's jaw poked out. Nothing was free. The girl paid for the sitting, and some weeks later Mallory displayed the enlarged photograph in his studio window.
     So, Lennox said, Mallory placed Amy's picture in the studio window after Amy left town?
 
     Mallory nodded. Yes, after she left. Anyway, she was not in Allenby more than one hour.
 
     Lennox sat on a sofa, close to Mallory and spoke softly. When Amy was in Allenby, did she have a companion?

     No.

     Did she have family in Allenby?

     No.

     How could Mallory be sure of that if he did not know the girl's name?

     Again, Mallory shrugged. "She might have had family in Allenby but I don't know. I put her photograph in my studio window long after I last saw her. That is all I can tell you. Anyway, what does it matter?"

     Lennox explained briefly her disappearance. Maybe Mallory had an inkling of where she was heading - maybe he had overheard her talking to her boyfriend.

     What boyfriend?

     Lennox handed Mallory Johnny's photograph. This was Johnny Benson. Did Mallory remember him?

     No.

     How could Mallory be so dismissive? Johnny was a good-looking boy; Mallory had taken the portrait photograph - surely he could remember. Mallory remained stubborn. He did not recall Johnny Benson. After all, he had taken thousands of photographs down the years. He could not help Lennox so would he please leave.
     Lennox believed calm persuasion the best option to coax a positive answer from an unwilling witness. Did Mallory know how Amy arrived and then departed Allenby?

     Mallory did know but he was not saying. His memory was not what it once was. His eyes closed. He did not open them again until hearing Lennox drive off, then, stiff with arthritis, he went to a room to study the huge color photograph of bikini-clad Amy smiling at him.
     There were stories of Mallory taking illicit photographs of willing female clients, but a police investigation at his Allenby premises uncovered nothing covert. He studied Amy's photo. Could hear her soft laughter and recall the youthful sparkle in her eyes. The figure was exquisite, the pose sensual, yet clean, for Mallory never had dabbled in lewdness. Such beauty as Amy possessed required the highest quality of Mallory's work, and in his heart, he knew this photograph of Amy, smiling over her left shoulder at the camera lens, was a masterpiece. For the rest of his life her beauty was there for him to see. He limped back to the armchair and sank on its cushions. The chintz curtains at the window twitched in the breeze.

     All the details Mallory wanted to remember of Amy came back to him. She, along with Johnny Benson, arrived in Allenby with Lester Johnson, in his battered 1930s Hudson sedan. Lester's folks lived on the southern side of the town and he intended exchanging a car with them before driving west to Seattle. On High Street, that Saturday evening, the failing Hudson gave a retched crunch, and stalled outside Mallory's studio just as Mallory was leaving.

     He remembered seeing Amy alight. She gave him a delightful smile. The evening sun showed colours in her hair that Mallory had seen only in fashion magazines.

     Mallory recalled Lester Johnson cursing and throwing his hat into the High Street dust. "God damned cars," he said, glaring at Mallory and trampling the hat. "What the hell do I do with one that quits on the High Street of my own home town?"

     "You should purchase another auto, Lester. After all, you travel America, offering folks assurance cover, yet you use a decrepit car to get around in. That's no way to sell indemnity or insurance."

     Lester Johnson frowned. "Don't tell me my job, you old goat. I provide guidance to people who need it. All you do is take dumb photographs."

     Mallory ignored Lester's jibe, he was more interested in Amy, and the photographs he might take of her. He asked her directly, "You have a beautiful face and figure. May I take your photograph?"

     Amy smiled at the handsome man getting out joining her. She paused, said something to the man, he nodded, she smiled back at Mallory. "I don't mind, but maybe we haven't the time."

     Mallory was adamant. "Let us make time."

     "Hey, what the hell is this, Vince?" growled Lester, fingers prowling under the Hudson bonnet. "My transport breaks down, and you jump on my friends for photographs. We are heading for Seattle, damn it!"

     Mallory smirked. "I don't see you heading anywhere, Lester. You're stuck outside my studio, and I am offering your lady passenger a photographic session - free of charge."

     Lester almost swallowed his false teeth. "You are offering something free! You must be ill, because you have the tightest billfold in town."

     "Maybe I do have," agreed Mallory, "but I know a beautiful subject when I see one, and while you are exchanging that heap of junk car, I shall photograph this lady, and her friend."

     Mallory smiled to himself, drifting slowly to sleep in the armchair, recalling taking photos of Amy and one of Johnny, while Lester contacted his family, using Mallory's phone - for a disputed charge of one dollar - to exchange the Hudson for a vehicle that actually moved.
     Later that evening, a Lincoln, containing Lester, Johnny and Amy, headed north.
     
     The last memory Mallory had of Amy was her hair shining as burnished gold, held in place by a pale blue headband.