“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 scrap 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:
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 assigned 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 glasses 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
