Apples. Nice, crisp fresh apples, like Jonathans, with a little tang under the sweetness. Wholesome American fruit, no imports, nothing exotic. But the very best of their kind.

It was Tony who ended the kiss. I’d have gone on as long as he wanted; it was his experiment, not mine.

“Well?” I inquired. “Have you reached a scientific conclusion or is more research necessary?”

“I think,” said Tony weakly, “I had better go to the Bayrischer Hof.”

“You can’t.” I started the car and edged back into the traffic. “They’ll be booked solid this time of year. Don’t worry, you can always prop a chair against your bedroom door.”

What I had said was true—most of the hotels would be full-up over the holidays. But the more I thought about letting Tony stay with me—chair or no chair—the madder I got. In addition to the other disadvantages, I resented being used as a bad-conduct prize.

After a moment of chilly silence I said, “Scratch the chair. You can start calling hotels as soon as we get to my place.”

The silence that followed was even chillier.

There was one positive feature to the situation, though. Now I could dismiss my suspicions of Tony once and for all. His odd behavior over the phone had bothered me more than I had been willing to admit; I hadn’t even mentioned it to John, because I knew he’d pounce on it as further evidence of guilt. That was all explained by Tony’s news; he had been apprehensive about breaking the news of his engagement and (the conceited thing) ditto my poor heart, and he must have known I would react profanely and angrily to Ann’s loony experiment.

Tony stirred. “You’ve changed.”

“How?”

“You didn’t used to sulk.”

“I’m not sulking. I’m thinking.”

If I had been tempted to tell all to Tony and invite him to join the hunt, the news of his engagement had changed my mind. I had no right to push Ann’s fiancé into possible danger. He would expect to see something of me, though, even if he stayed at a hotel. Could I keep him amused and unaware for a few days, and then send him off to Turin unscathed and unsmirched? The answer was yes, probably, if nothing untoward occurred and if Schmidt kept his mouth shut and if John stayed far away from me.

In my absorption, I almost drove past the house. I pulled into my driveway with an abruptness that wrung a rude comment on my driving from Tony.

I ignored the comment. “Here we are. We’ll have a drink or two while you call hotels.”

Tony looked hurt. I ignored the look, too. It had been his idea to stay at a hotel, hadn’t it?

My house and its neighbors were part of the Wirtschafts-wunder—the economic rebirth of Germany after the Second World War. Not a distinguished part, however. Like corresponding developments in the United States, there were only two basic plans, endlessly repeated, to which the architects had added minor details in the hope (unfulfilled) of making the houses look different. My neighbor on the north had a bay window in the living room, my neighbor on the south had a bay window in the dining room. I had a front porch. It wasn’t much, just two walls with a roof on top and two teeny benches that nobody ever sat on.