fraction of a second, just when I knew it was all over, the tires bit into the road again. The Great Man downshifted, punched the pedal, and the car surged forward into the gray rain. He turned to me and laughed. “Reflexes,” he announced gaily.
He was a wonderful driver. He was better than I was, and I was good. But enough was enough.
I exhaled. Then I inhaled. Then I said, “Okay, Harry. Stop the car.”
He turned to me and he frowned. “What?”
“The car. Stop it. Now.”
The frown reached his eyes. “You want me to stop?”
“Now.”
“But…”
“Now.”
He stopped the car and looked over at me, still frowning. I grabbed my fedora from the back seat. I opened the door, stepped out into the rain, and slammed the door shut behind me. I screwed on the hat. I tugged up my coat collar, buttoned the buttons, tied the belt, and I started marching back the way we’d come.
The rain wasn’t all that heavy when you weren’t racing through it at sixty miles an hour. But it was as wet as rain usually is, and it was cold. The air temperature was probably in the forties. This was August. Oh to be in England now that summer’s here.
I heard the car come up behind me.
“Phil?”
The car was in reverse. He had the window down and he was leaning across the seat so he could talk to me through it. Rain was pattering onto the leather seats, but I doubt that he noticed, or cared. If the seats were damaged, he would buy Lord Endover a new Lancia. He could afford it.
I saw all this without looking at him directly. Peripheral vision. I kept walking and he kept driving. The car remained at exactly the same distance from me all the while, about two feet away. He was a wonderful driver, even in reverse.
“Phil? Where are you going?”
I didn’t look at him. “Back to New York.”
“But what about your job?”
“I can’t do my job if we’re both dead.”
“But what about Bess? What will I tell her?”
Bess was his wife. It had been her idea to hire me.
I said, “Tell her whatever you want.”
“Phil,” he said. “You’re upset.”
He said it as though he had just now figured it out. Probably he had. He was one of those men who honestly believed that everyone was as thrilled by him as he was.
“Yeah,” I admitted. I still hadn’t looked at him.
“Why don’t you drive the car, Phil?”
I stopped walking and he stopped driving. I turned and looked down at him. Some water toppled from my hat and splattered onto my shoes. He was peering up at me through the window, blinking against the rain. His face was earnest.
He hadn’t apologized. Why should he? He hadn’t done anything wrong. He couldn’t do anything wrong. Ever. But I was upset, for whatever reason, and he liked me, and so he would mollify me. He was a generous man.
Despite myself, I smiled. His self-involvement was so total it was almost a kind of innocence.
“Harry,” I said, “you are really a piece of work.”
He smiled up at me, that wide charming smile, and he nodded. He already knew that.
We reached the narrow gravel driveway to Maplewhite at a little after nine-thirty that night.
The rain had stopped, darkness had come. The full moon was a dull gray blur behind dark scudding clouds edged with silver. Leaning toward us on both sides was a dense forest of tall black trees, oaks and elms and pines. We drove up through these into the smell of damp earth and moldering leaves, the drive turning back and forth upon itself like a grifter’s alibi. At the top of the hill the trees fell away and all at once we were among the clouds and not below them. In the moonlight they were slowly rolling across acres and acres of parkland.
Directly ahead of us, with more clouds streaming like pennants from its towers, was the house.
It was black and it was huge, as big as a cliff. The towers, one at each side of the main building, were taller than the giant twin oak trees that flanked the entrance. The lighted windows were tiny narrow vertical slits in the craggy mass of rock.
It looked like the kind of place you couldn’t get into without an invitation, and maybe not even then. That was fine with me.
“It’s big, eh?” said the Great Man.
“Yeah,” I said.
“In the thirteenth century, it was built. The Normans. Observe the towers.”
“Hard not to.”
To the right of the building was a carriage house-slate roof, stone walls, two broad wooden doors. In front of this was a graveled area for cars, roofed over to protect them. Six cars were parked there. I wheeled the Lancia in and parked it beside an elegant Rolls-Royce tourer.
I turned off the ignition reluctantly. The big automobile had driven beautifully. A couple of times, rain or no rain, I had been tempted to hit the gas and see what the car could do. I hadn’t mentioned this to the Great Man.
We got out of the car and I put on my hat. I went around to the trunk and opened it. The Great Man joined me, rubbing his hands together. Even in the dimness I could see his smile. He was excited. He was about to make an entrance.
Impatiently, he waved a hand at the trunk. “Leave the bags, Phil,” he said. “The servants will take care of them.”
“Why should we bother the servants?”
I pulled my bag out of the trunk.
He was shorter than I was, by almost a foot. But his shoulders were as broad as mine and he could pick me up and hold me in the air for pretty much as long as he liked.
It wasn’t merely strength, although he had plenty of that. It was a refusal to recognize that, for him, anything at all was impossible.
If he decided he didn’t want to carry his bag, there wasn’t much I could do about it. Except carry the bag myself, to prove a point.
He grinned up at me and he clapped me on the shoulder. “You are a pure democrat, Phil. A true American. That is what I like about you. I am exactly the same myself.” He reached in and swung his bag out of the trunk. Black alligator leather, with gold fittings. The kind that all true Americans carried. I had stashed the bag in the trunk, so I knew that it weighed about seventy-five pounds. He handled it as if it were filled with popped corn.
I slammed the trunk shut and together we walked to the enormous wooden door at the entrance to the house.
An electric light glowed above the door. Poking through the door’s center was the head of a big brass lion who was chewing on a big brass knocker. The Great Man lifted the knocker and rapped it once, hard, against its brass plate. The lion didn’t seem to mind.
For a moment we stood listening to drip-water plop against the puddles. Then the door swung open and a butler stood there in the light. A tall man, heavyset, white haired, in his sixties. His round English face was red, the face of a man who knew where they hid the cooking sherry. He was dressed in black, elaborately. If kings wore black, they would dress the way he did.
“Gentlemen?” he said. His features were blank and expressionless.
“Harry Houdini,” said the Great Man, like Santa Claus announcing Christmas. “And Phil Beaumont,” he added. Remembering the reindeer.
The butler nodded without changing the look on his face, or adding one to it. “I am Higgens,” he said. “Please come in.”
