“Noticed what?” I asked.

“Your little finger. You don’t have one.”

“Actually, I do,” I said. “But there was a time when I had two. One on each hand.”

“And you a detective, too,” he scolded, and held up his own left hand to reveal that half of his little finger was missing. Just like mine. “So much for your powers of observation. Actually, I’m beginning to doubt you were ever a detective at all, my friend. And if you were, you can’t have been a very good one. What is it that Sherlock Holmes says to Dr. Watson? You see but you do not observe.” He grinned and twisted the end of one of his mustaches, apparently enjoying my surprise and momentary discomfiture.

“That’s crap and you know it,” I said. “The whole idea of my coming here was so that I could switch off for a while. And that’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

“You’re making excuses, Gunther. Next thing you’ll be saying is that you’ve been ill, or some nonsense like that. That you didn’t notice my missing finger because the beating detached your retina. Which is also why you haven’t noticed that Engelbertina is a little in love with you.”

“What?” I stopped the wheelchair, kicked on the brake, and came around the front.

“Yes, really, it’s quite noticeable.” He smiled. “And you call yourself a detective.”

“What do you mean, a little in love with me?”

“I don’t say that she’s madly in love with you,” he said. “I say a little bit.” He got out his pipe and started to fill it. “Oh, she hasn’t said as much. But after all, I happen to know her quite well. Well enough to know that being a little in love is all she’s probably capable of, the poor lamb.” He patted his pockets. “I seem to have left my matches back at the house. Do you have a strike?”

“What’s your evidence?” I tossed him a box of matches.