Hook followed them into the house, which was warm and stuffy, evidently having been closed up tight all day. It was also messy. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink; filled ashtrays and used cocktail glasses sat abandoned on the coffee table, on the hearth, on the railing of the deck outside. If not a party, then there had been a conference here the night before, a wet one. Hook would have given much to know who had attended and what they had talked about.

Liz Madera threw her jacket over a chair. Then pushing up the sleeves of her white turtleneck, she slid open the glass doors to the sundeck. Meanwhile Douglas, making no pretense of not being right at home, had gone behind the room’s small bar and was getting out glasses and ice.

“Scotch all right?” he asked.

Hook said it would be fine.

“You, Liz?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

As Douglas prepared the drinks he explained to Hook that the owner of the house, Mrs. Rubin, worked for him—actually was an “associate” of his—and her car had broken down—was already in the shop, in fact—so he had brought Miss Madera home in order to take her car back to town with him so Mrs. Rubin would have a means of getting home after work. Throughout this short tale, Hook watched Douglas carefully. His movements were swift and easy; he was consummately at ease. And despite Hook’s belief that the man was somehow tied in with Chris’s death, he found him difficult to dislike. He obviously had a talent for making others feel important and liked, so he in turn of course was automatically even better liked. In short, he was a natural politician. Like a Hemingway whore, he had found his profession.

As Douglas handed him his drink, Hook decided it was time to get down to business. “That’s your relationship with Miss Madera?” he asked. “You’re just her landlord’s boss?”

Leaning back against the bar, Douglas regarded him thoughtfully. “No, we’re pretty good friends in our own right,” he said finally. “I guess that’s a fair statement, isn’t it, Liz?”

Hook looked over at her. She was standing in the open doorway gazing out at the sea. She did not turn or answer. Apparently handling him was to be Douglas’s job alone.

“That’s what I heard,” Hook said.

Douglas grinned quizzically. “Anything wrong with that?”

“Not with that, no.”

Douglas lit a cigarette. His expression said it all, that here he was, this bright decent fellow, this important and busy man, trying to be nice to some hick farmer from the Midwest, in fact bending over backwards to be nice to him, and where was it getting him?

“Mr. Hook,” he said. “I’m the kind of man who likes to put his cards on the table. And I wish you’d do the same. Just what is it you’re trying to say?”

“Not say—ask. I guess I want to ask if it doesn’t bother you that Miss Madera picks up young hitchhikers and brings them here.”