“Good idea. Can you find the place we had a drink at the other day?”

“Yes.”

“There's a chop house two blocks up, same side of the street. I'll be there in five minutes.”

They both rang off.

In five minutes, Holmes arrived at the small restaurant on Ellis in time to see a plate of chops and grilled tomato set in front of Hammett. The thin man had gone home and changed his stained grey suit for one of a subtle brown check, and looked himself again. His eyes caught Holmes' entrance, but he continued bantering with the pretty waitress, although it seemed to Holmes that the man was so fatigued that the flirtation was little more than habitual motion. Hammett picked up knife and fork with determination, addressing himself to the plate as if eating was just another job to be got through. Holmes waited in growing impatience while the man sawed, chewed, and swallowed, but before long Hammett allowed his utensils to come to a rest on his plate, drained the glass of orange juice he had been drinking, and searched his breast pockets, coming out with a small note-book.

He flipped it open on the table and resumed his knife and fork, working now with a degree less intensity.

“Saw your lady this morning,” he said when he had swallowed.

“Yes? Did you have conversation?”

“Just an exchange. She saw me climbing the rocks where the accident took place, asked me if I was having fun. I said no, not really, and gave her some guff about an insurance company investigating a ‘fatal' accident that might have been a set-up.”

“Did she believe you?”

“Seemed to.” Holmes thought this was probably the case: If Russell had been suspicious, she would have asked more questions than she had.

“Why did you wait until today to go down there?”

“I thought I'd get some answers about the car, first, and then snoop around the local garage down there, second. Couldn't do either of those on a Sunday, but the cliff would be there anytime.”

“But why did you find it necessary to climb down the cliffs?”

The words were mild enough, but some vestige of anger in Holmes' voice brought Hammett's head up. After a moment, his eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. You knew I was there today. Did you have me watched?”

“I did not.”

“You were there? Where—the old Pierce-Arrow with the velvet curtains, right?”

“Correct.”

Holmes waited to see if the man became angry, saw him consider it, then lay it aside with a shrug. “Your business, I guess.”

“You didn't answer my question.”