I was still pondering the possibility that Britta Warzok had kicked some sand in my eyes and was now a perfect stranger to me when another stranger came out of the bathroom. He was sitting in Gruen’s wheelchair, which was being pushed, as usual, by Engelbertina but, already confounded by my telephone conversation with Wallace Beery and friend, it was a few seconds before I realized the stranger was Eric Gruen.

“What do you think?” he said, stroking his now smoothly shaven face.

“You’ve shaved off your beard,” I said, like an idiot.

“Engelbertina did it,” he said. “What do you think?”

“You look much better without it,” she said.

“I know what you think,” he said. “I was asking Bernie.”

I shrugged. “You look much better without it,” I said.

“Younger,” she added. “Younger and better-looking.”

“You’re just saying that,” he said.

“No, it’s true,” she said. “Isn’t it, Bernie?”

I nodded, studying the face more carefully now. There was something familiar in its features. The broken nose, the pugnacious chin, the tight mouth, and the smooth forehead. “Younger? Yes, I believe so. But there’s something else I can’t quite put my finger on.” I shook my head. “I don’t know. Maybe you were right, Eric. When you said that you thought we’d met before. Now that you’ve got rid of the face guard, there’s something about you that does strike me as familiar.”

“Really?” He sounded vague now. As if he wasn’t quite sure himself.

Engelbertina uttered a loud tut of exasperation. “Can’t you see it?” she said. “You pair of idiots. Isn’t it obvious? You look like brothers. Yes, that’s it. Brothers.”

Gruen and I looked at each other and straightaway we knew that she was right. We did look quite alike. But she still fetched a hand mirror and obliged us to bow our heads together and view our reflection. “That’s who each of you is reminded of when you look at the other,” she announced, almost triumphantly. “Yourself, of course.”

“I always did want an older brother,” said Gruen.

“What’s with the older?” I asked.

“Well, it’s true,” he insisted, and started to fill his pipe. “You look like an older version of me. A little more gray and worn-looking. Harder-bitten, certainly. Perhaps even a little coarser, on the edges. And I think you look less intelligent than me. Or maybe just a little puzzled. Like you can’t remember where it was you left your hat.”

“You forgot to mention taller,” I said. “By about two and half feet.”

He looked at me squarely, grinned, and lit his pipe. “No, on second thought, I do mean less intelligent. Perhaps even a little stupid. The stupid detective.”