At the bread truck, Hammett accepted his hat and a flask from the driver, propping his back against the vehicle and ignoring the approaching newcomers. Eyes shut, he took a deep draught from the flask, then another, shuddering slightly in reaction. He handed the flask back to the bow-legged man, then peeled himself off the wall of the truck, wrenching open its cargo door to drop onto the floor where he sat, head bowed and feet resting on the ground, clearly gathering his energies. After a minute, his right arm reached surreptitiously around his back, as if scratching an itch at the belt-line, then he straightened. His hands came up to run through his hair, returning it to a semblance of order, then adjusted his neck-tie, dashed ineffectually at the stained knee of one trouser-leg, and finally shifted to his inner chest pocket to pull out his pouch of Bull Durham.

Hammett's fingers shaped the cigarette with an exaggeration of their normal care, and eventually lifted the object to his tongue to seal it. He was fumbling for his matches when the young blond swell who'd been driving the other car stepped forward and stuck out a hand with a lighter in it.

The lighter was sleek and gold, of a piece with the coat and the car; the blond man was maybe a year or two younger than Hammett himself, but he looked like a kid—family money and no responsibilities will do that for you. But Hammett bent to accept the light and sat there, eyes half shut, for the length of three or four steadying puffs. Then he moved the cigarette to his left hand, pushed his hat-brim up with the forefinger of his right hand, and at last looked up into the face of the tall blonde girl whom his new employer had been watching from the speakeasy on Friday night.

Mary Russell, married to Sherlock Holmes, gave him a smile meant to be reassuring. “That looked a rather dangerous climb.”

“Not something I'd do for fun, no.”

“So why were you doing it? If you don't mind my asking,” she added.

“What's it to you?” he said bluntly, putting the cigarette back to his lips.

After a moment, she said, “I know someone who was killed on that piece of hillside. It was odd, seeing you at the same exact place.”

“Yeah, well, as I understand it, there's a number of people that corner's killed. But my company's only interested in two deaths that happened last December. That the same accident as yours?”

“No.”

“Then I can't help you.”

“What's your company?”

“Mutual of Fresno,” he replied, reaching for his wallet and drawing out a business card with a salesman's automatic habit. “Somebody phoned in a tip to say we might've paid death benefits on an empty car. Always a problem, you see, when there's no body.”

“I see,” she said, looking at the card.