“I cannot get away from the man. I sit peacefully over my poached eggs and toast, wishing only the gentle news of the latest poisoned-chocolates case or Babe Ruth clouting his homer, and who should stare out at me from the pages of a newspaper from a city halfway across the world from my home but Conan Doyle.”

During this monologue, Hammett had been paging through the crumpled sheets with some difficulty, interrupted by the waitress taking his order and the bus-boy cleaning up Holmes' spilt coffee, but at last he found it:

Conan Doyle Lauds, Hits S.F.
Likes City's Beauty; Abhors Spiritual Void

Hammett read the article with close attention, learning that the writer's recently published account of his Second American Adventure included the lament that he had found San Francisco to be a far less psychic city than Los Angeles. At the article's inside continuation, he read aloud the author's regret over “San Francisco, with its very material atmosphere,” and ending with his judgement that the city left “much room for spiritual betterment.”

By the time Hammett reached the final resounding phrase, he was finding it difficult to control his laughter. Holmes looked storm-clouds at him, until the younger man protested, “Hey, you might have had to come to Los Angeles instead of here.”

Holmes' glare held, then softened, and he relaxed into his ruffled feathers. “That is very true,” he admitted, adding, “I like your town more and more, Hammett. Any town whose people have the sense to laugh at Doyle's infantile philosophy can't be too bad.”

Hammett raised his coffee cup. “Here's to San Francisco.”

Holmes, casting a last disgusted look at the paper Hammett had folded up onto the unoccupied chair, tore his eyes and his attention away from the outrage and asked Hammett if he'd heard anything during the night.

“Not a thing. Looks like she's cutting her losses and I'll end up nailing the envelope onto the front of the building like I told her. But like I said, my wife's taken the kid off to Santa Cruz for a couple of days with friends. I'm at your service.”

“What did your police detective have to say about the Ginzberg death?”

“A fat lot of nothing. Not even any prints on the statue that bashed her. Some kind of bird carving it was, an owl maybe, from Rhodes or Crete or something in the Mediterranean. Seems she collected bird sculptures from all over.”

“If you haven't exhausted your friends' patience there, how would you feel about having the police lab look at a set of prints?”

“From where?”

“I found them on an otherwise pristine toilet-pull in the house. They appear to belong to a woman—ours probably has no record, but just in case.”

“Okay.”

“Then later, why don't you come by the house? I've arranged something that might interest you.”

“Yeah? What's that?” Hammett's plate arrived and he picked up his utensils.