“Too close to things to see clearly,” Hammett suggested.

“It is temporary, I have no doubt. But until she returns to herself, she is . . .” Again Holmes paused, searching for a word that might be accurate without being traitorous; he was unable to find one, and finished the sentence with a sigh and the word “unreliable.”

“So what do you want me to do first?”

“Do you know anything about motorcars?”

“They have four wheels and tip over real easy—when I'm driving, anyway. I usually ask a friend to drive me.”

“You don't like guns and you don't like motorcars. Are you certain you're American?”

“I've hurt people with both of them, didn't like the feeling.”

“Very well, then; ask a friend to drive you.”

Holmes reached into his inner pocket and pulled out his long leather note-case, taking from it a slip of paper with some notes in a small, difficult, but precise hand: his handwriting. “This is what I know about the motorcar crash. What we're looking for is evidence of foul play, any evidence at all. The police report is quite clear that it was an accident, so the best we can hope for is a faint discrepancy.” He watched to see if Hammett looked puzzled, but the man was nodding.

“Something that smells off.”

“Quite. It is, after all this time, highly doubtful that there was enough of the motor to salvage, and even less of a chance the wreckage has anything to tell us, but it is just possible that no-one could decide what to do with the thing, and either left it on the cliffside or pulled it up and hauled it into a corner until its ownership was decided. The convolutions of the American legal system,” he added, “occasionally have inadvertent benefits.”

“Can't you just ask your wife's lawyer what happened to the car?”

“I'd rather not bring him into it.”

“I see. You'd rather pay me to go down on a fool's task and look at a ten-year-old burned-out hulk.”

“It is an avenue of enquiry that must be pursued to its end, no matter how soon that end is reached.”

Hammett studied the piece of paper for a moment with a faint smile on his expressive mouth, then he picked it up without comment and tucked it away in his note-book. Sure, investigating the car might be a red herring designed for nothing more than getting him out of town for a couple of days, but what of it? There was trust, and there was stupidity, and despite his snooty accent, this Holmes was no jerk.

And the Limey's money couldn't be any dirtier than the pile of bills in the file.

As if he had followed the line of thought, Holmes addressed himself to the leather wallet again, pulling out five twenty-dollar notes and laying them onto the table. “That should be sufficient as a retainer. You see, I do not make the mistake of paying too generously.”