"Oh, right, you haven't seen it. It was part of the braking system of a 1914 Maxwell, almost as clean as when it came off the factory floor, except it had a slice halfway across it that sure as shooting wasn't put there by the factory, and it had broke the rest of the way."

My face must have told him that, though I was a female, I understood not only what a brake rod was, but what a cut one meant. He nodded encouragingly, and told me a long and apologetic story about how his brother had seen that perfectly good cha.s.sis sitting there getting beaten by waves and decided that it might as well be salvaged for parts before the ocean took it. As they'd been dismantling it some months later, the remaining half of the brake rod came to light. His brother had found it, showed him what it had meant, and stuck it on the shelf.

"Why didn't you give it to the police?" I asked.

"We did," he answered indignantly. "Next time the town cop come by, a day or two later, my brother and me showed it to him, told him where we'd got it. He was more interested in the fact that we'd helped ourselves to the car-as if there was anything left of it, it was less of a car than a heap of sc.r.a.p. By the time he left, he was saying he'd have to ask his sergeant about charging d.i.c.k and me with theft. Had us a little worried, I won't lie. But nothing happened after that. And when nothing happened, I sure wasn't about to stick my neck out a second time and risk getting me and my brother arrested over something that had maybe or maybe not happened four months before. So we just left it on the shelf for safekeeping and shut up about it, and after a while I just plumb forgot."

"Until the insurance man came asking." Asking about that accident, not one of the previous December.

Hoffman nodded. "He sawed off the end and took it away with him. The end I had, anyway."

"It was only half?"

"About eight inches of rod cut about three-quarters of the way through. The rest of the way it'd tore, like I told you. Our local Deadeye d.i.c.k said it was a piece of junk, that it broke in the wreck. But I know cars, and I know brake rods, and even when I was a kid I could see that it wasn't just a break that happened in going off the cliff. My brother was right-someone sawed nearly through it. Couldn't be no accident or flaw in the steel, and sure as h.e.l.l-pardon, miss-wasn't from no sc.r.a.ping rock."

"I believe you," I told him. He settled back on the bench, his ten-year-old indignation soothed by my agreement. I continued. "Did you notice anything about the insurance man? I don't suppose he gave you his card?"

"Come to think of it, he did-should be near the register somewheres, that's where he found me."

"Had you seen the-" I caught myself before I could reveal that I knew that the man had come in a hired bread van. "-the car he came in?"

"Wasn't a car, a white bakery delivery van, out of the city. Never seen it before."

We talked a while longer, but he knew nothing else about the purported insurance man. I was about to thank him for his time and rejoin my companions when I realised that I'd been so distracted by his unexpected information about the insurance man and the brake line, I'd nearly forgotten the question that started it all.

"About the accident, ten years ago. Apart from the brake rod you found later, was there anything about the day itself that stuck in your mind?"

"Long time ago," he said.

"Yes, I understand. Well, thank you-" I started to say, but he was not finished.

". . . and you know how it's hard to be sure about details, when things happened, unless you pin them down at the time?"

"Yes?" I said by way of encouragement, settling down again on the hard seat.

"Well, after we found the brake rod-and remember, that was months later-end of December, first part of January-I got to thinking back. Like I said, I'd been the one patched the car's tyre, and when I heard a little later that it'd gone off the cliff just down the road, all I could think of was I hadn't fastened the wheel down strong enough and it fell off and I'd killed them. Can't tell you what a relief it was to see all four wheels still on the car-the rubber melted, of course, but there. So the day itself made what you might call an impression on me, you understand?"

I nodded encouragement.

"It's like there's a light on the day, and yeah, I forgot about it there for a while, but once I thought about it again, I could see a lot of details. Like those wheels, and where d.i.c.k stuck that hunk of rod, and that it was the afternoon a girl I was sweet on come by and brought me a cake she'd made, that kind of thing, you know?"

I nodded again, wondering where this tale was leading us.

"So, one of the things I remembered later, I'm pretty sure it was that same day, but if you told me it wasn't, I couldn't call you a liar, you know what I'm saying? But I think it was the same afternoon that the man with the scars was there."

It was a good thing I was already seated; the thump thump of reaction would have put me on the ground. "Scars," I repeated breathlessly. of reaction would have put me on the ground. "Scars," I repeated breathlessly.

"Yeah, burn scars, all over his face. Not real heavy, you know, and his eyes and nose were okay. Just that the skin was funny-looking, all shiny."

"And his eyebrows were gone."

"Not completely, but they were kind of patchy, like his moustache. Even the front of the scalp was uneven, like. And they weren't pink, so they probably weren't new. I was sixteen then and the war had just started up so it was in all the papers, and when I saw him I wondered at first if he'd got them in the war, then realised it was probably just some kind of accident."

"What did he want?"

"Nothing, as far as I could see. I'd just finished putting the wheel on and noticed him standing about, and he was still there when I'd moved the car and helped another customer. So I mentioned it to my brother, thinking maybe the guy was looking to steal something. d.i.c.k laughed at me, said I'd been reading too many cheap stories, look at the guy, did he look like someone who needed to steal things? He went over and talked to him, turned out he was just waiting for a ride he'd set up. And his ride must've come, because he wasn't there next time I came out."

"But you remembered the fellow, later."

"When that cut rod got me thinking, yeah. But like I said, I can't be a hundred percent sure it was even the same day, just around then. And the guy didn't look like someone who'd crawl under a car with a hacksaw."

"Dressed well?"

"Yeah, like a dandy."

A dandy. "Did . . . by any chance, was he wearing a diamond ring?" This was feeding information to a witness, but it couldn't be helped, and imagination or no, I didn't think the mechanic was terribly suggestible.

The grimy face looked startled, then the eyebrows came down in thought. "He was, now I come to think about it. How'd you know?"

"A friend mentioned him," I told him, more or less truthfully: The scars explained why Mr Gordimer's grey-haired intruder with a diamond ring had kept his back turned, only revealing his face when he spoke over his shoulder, showing a sc.r.a.p of moustache. "You haven't seen him since?"

"That I haven't, and I think I'd have noticed."

"I imagine you would," I said. "Can we just check the insurance man's business card?"

He led me inside the tiny building, rooting around in his cash-drawer for a minute before coming up with a slip of white pasteboard identical to the one the man had given me on Sunday. I handed this one back to the garage owner, thanked him, and gave him a card of my own with the telephone number of the St Francis on it, in case anything else should occur to him. Before I left, I asked, "The boy outside, is he your brother's son?"

"He is. Four years old when his daddy joined up. I'm raising him as my own."

I went back into my hand-bag and laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter. "I'm sure there's something the boy needs. This is a thank-you from an English citizen, to one who made the great sacrifice."

He took the money, shook my hand again, and watched me walk away.

Around the side of the garage, I found a water tap and a bar of filthy soap stuck onto a nail, and absently scrubbed at my palms, my mind caught up in the sensation of pressure, of memories unseen, and the inner echo of that morning's voice murmuring: They died. They died.

Clearly, the Southern woman and her scarred companion had hired another agent. Still, I'd have expected their "insurance man" to be more than a few days ahead of us. Gordimer had thrown the pair off the lake property five weeks ago-why hadn't they come to the Serra Beach garage at that time? If they were looking to retrieve any evidence of their murderous sabotage of my father's motorcar, why wait until I was breathing down their necks?

I joined Flo and Donny at the car, but before I got in, I turned to study the garage and its adjoining cafe.

Something was missing here; either that, or I was missing something. Trim building, petrol pumps, big gum tree growing around one side, a general air of prosperity; the air smelt of eucalyptus oil, the sea, petrol, and frying meat from the cafe; the sounds were the chugging of the pump, the cries of sea-birds, voices in conversation, a dog somewhere barking in play; I couldn't put my finger on what should have been there but was not.

"Do you see something missing?" I asked my companions. When they did not answer, I glanced around and saw their expressions, which were frankly concerned. Belatedly, I realised that my peremptory commands of the morning, given without explanation, had left them wondering as to my stability.

"It's okay," I said with a rather forced laugh. "I know I've been a bit lunatic this morning, but really, I simply remembered that there was something I needed to do in the city, and hadn't made other arrangements. Sorry I've been so pushy. And here, well, I'm trying to remember what it is."

Both of them dutifully turned to study the front of the garage. Donny cleared his throat and suggested, "These kinds of places sometimes have signs standing out in the road," but that did not feel right. With a sigh of resignation I climbed into my a.s.signed seat.

My thoughts were so distracting that all the way back up to the city, I was scarcely aware that I was not the one driving.

Back at the St Francis, I invited them in for a cup of tea. They hesitated, then Flo said that she knew it was early but she'd really like a drink, and so they left their car with the valet and came in. The waiter brought their "tea" in long-stemmed gla.s.ses with an olive in each, although I stuck to the more traditional English stimulant. I excused myself for a moment to go up to the room, but there was no sign of Holmes, and the only message was from Mr Braithwaite at the hospital, giving me the information I'd asked for regarding Dr Ginzberg's death. I read it, noticed the house keys on top of the dressing-table and pocketed them, then went back downstairs.

I made an effort to redeem myself and be friendly and relaxed, but when Flo and Donny left, amidst a flurry of affectionate cries and kisses worthy of her mother, I felt a great burden depart with them. I waved them away, thought about the empty room upstairs, thought too about the possibility that Holmes could return at any time, and asked the man for a taxi: If the keys were here, Holmes was not at the house, and I could have some quiet in which to meditate.

During the short trip into Pacific Heights, I considered what I would do with the remainder of the day. After I had absorbed some silence, I would go to police headquarters and locate the officer who had investigated Dr Ginzberg's death, whom the note identified as James Roley. Then I would locate the bread company whose van that false insurance agent had hired, find out at what garage their van had spent the previous day, and hunt down the man through the garage's mechanic.

The taxi stopped in front of the house, and I paid the driver and got out, walking briskly up the walk and working the key without hesitation, then locked the door behind me.

I took one step, and froze: There were lights in the house, and movement.

My hands dove for my hand-bag of their own accord, slapping at the clasp and fumbling for the cool touch of the revolver before Holmes appeared at the far end of the hall-way. I straightened, allowing the weight to slip back inside, and gave a startled laugh as I started down the hall.

"Why didn't you bring the keys with you, Holmes? Did your pick-locks need practice, or did you have a copy-"

My voice strangled at the sight of the well-dressed figure sitting before the library's fireplace: legs as awkwardly long as Holmes' own, skeletal fingers on the chair's arm, an incongruously healthy head of red hair going grey at the temples: a man I'd last seen driving away from the beach at the base of the cliffs.

In an instant, with no fumbling, the gun was out and level. "Holmes, move away from that man. He's working for the people who killed my parents."

Holmes did not move, and I glanced briefly at him, keeping the gun steady.

Why the devil was my husband positively grinning-and with what looked remarkably like relief?

BOOK FOUR.

Holmes

Chapter Twenty-one.

The previous morning, Tuesday, Holmes had been up long before dawn. With Russell safely retired to the lake-house for another thirty-six hours, Holmes was free to sit amongst his cushions behind closed curtains and drink his morning coffee in solitude, raising as much of a stink as he wished with the black and reeking tobacco he preferred for times of ratiocination.

The question was not so much a matter of whether or not he could could convince Hammett to work a play of deception on his erstwhile employer, as whether he convince Hammett to work a play of deception on his erstwhile employer, as whether he should. should.

The note sent to Hammett by the woman with the Southern accent had said that she would telephone to him on Tuesday morning at eight o'clock. By that time Hammett would need to decide: Should he openly decline her offer of employment and arrange the return of her money, or use the opportunity to lay a trap-feeding her false information, stressing the importance of a meeting?

Clearly, the trap was desirable, but pressing this ex-Pinkerton to be the active cause of the woman's downfall was fraught with delicate ethical considerations. As Hammett had put it, "If I get the better of a guy who's been cheating me, I've got no problems with helping myself to his wallet. But if I take his job and then sell him to someone else, that's worse than stealing, it's plain dirty. A verbal contract's still a contract, and it's got to be broken before it can be ignored."

Holmes did not know if he ought to force the deception on him. Doing so ran the risk of alienating Hammett completely, having him simply declare a curse on both their houses and go home to the Underwood on his kitchen table.

Actually, Holmes reflected, knocking the first pipe out and reaching for the tobacco, on closer consideration the question might actually be whether he could could convince the man to turn coat. convince the man to turn coat.

In the end, the previous evening he had simply presented his case for bringing the lady-or even her agent-into the open, that she might be located, identified, and a.s.sessed. Then he had left Hammett to make up his own mind.

Holmes tried to console himself with the idea that, even were Hammett to decline the job, she would have to venture into the open to retrieve her cash. Of course, if she had any sense, she'd write the money off rather than risk exposure; whether or not she did so would in itself tell him a great deal.

When he had exhausted the possibilities of Hammett's telephone conversation, Holmes removed his mind from that and turned his thoughts to his father-in-law's will, his mother-in-law's garden journals, and the tantalising words on the burnt sc.r.a.ps of paper.

The hands of the clock moved with agonising slowness. Holmes sat, motionless for long periods on the cushions, his hooded eyes glittering in the dim light of the room, and waited for his telephone to ring.

At sixteen minutes after the hour, the device emitted the strangled burble that was its mechanical equivalent of a throat-clearing, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed it up before it could go on to its ring.

"Yes," he demanded.

"She 'phoned, right on the dot of eight," Hammett's voice told him. "I told her I couldn't take the case."

"I see." Holmes was not surprised.

"She wasn't happy about it. Cursed me in a couple of languages, and I had to raise my voice to ask her where I should send her money. She finally heard me, said I should keep it for a while, that maybe I'd change my mind. Said it like a threat. So I had to tell her that, if I didn't hear from her by Friday morning, I was going to tack the envelope up to the entranceway of the apartment building and leave it there for anyone to help themselves to."

"What was her response?"

"She just said she'd be in touch and hung up. With a bang. When I got the exchange, the girl said that the call had been put through from a public office on the other side of town, but when I called there, the woman had left already. She's pretty good at this."

"I expected nothing less. Hammett, it might be a good idea-"

"Yeah, I know, I'll need to be back here before my wife comes home with the kid for lunch, just in case we have a visitor with a gun. But I think I'll use some of your money to send them both down to Santa Cruz for a couple of days. She's been talking about going. Once they're out of the way I'll be yours for what you need."

"You might also make sure you don't leave any notes concerning the case lying about in the open."

"I'll do that. So, what do you want me to do this morning?"

"How far did you get on the Ginzberg death?"

"Found the man in charge; he was tied up with a fresh case."

"I'd like to have something to give Russell on that when she gets back tomorrow. See what you can do with it."

"Right you are. You need me, I'm at police headquarters 'til noon, then back here."

"And I shall check in with the hotel during the day, to ask if any messages have been left me," Holmes told him, then, "Hammett?"

"Still here."

"I was thinking of placing an advert in one of the papers, asking for information regarding the delivery of an envelope to your address. That lad might be able to tell us something."

"Are you asking my opinion?"

"I suppose I am," Holmes said, rather surprised at the fact.