“You may be right,” she said. “Now that you mention it, I remember he had a weird look on his face.”

“Oh, yes?”

“His eyes in particular. I remember very clearly. His eyes were dark and every now and then there was a sort of flash . . . and in the light of those flashes you could see, as if it was at the very back of his eyes, you could see all sorts of things like daggers and swords and rifles and snakes and tigers and crocodiles and rhinoceroses and dinosaurs and dragons and . . .”

“Okay! I get it!” said the man.

When he had finished brushing the girl’s hair and redoing her braid, she showed him the book the reporter had given her. She had already started to read it. It was The Oregon Trail Revisited, by Gregory M. Franzwa, and the title reminded Jack of something. He had the impression that he’d seen it somewhere, but where? And suddenly he remembered: the police file in Toronto! It was one of the books Théo had in his belongings! He opened his mouth to tell the girl, but she was grinning at him and he saw at once that she had got the point before him and that he was late, as usual. Then to make up for it, he announced, “We’re going to leave as soon as possible.”

“There’s a lot to do,” said the girl.

“That’s true,” he said. “We have to go to the garage to see about the brakes and the lube job. Find out some things about the conquest of the West. Learn how to live. Learn how to love. Buy oranges and food for Chop Suey.”

“And do a laundry,” she said. “We’re out of clean clothes.”

THEY HAD BEEN in the waiting room for an hour, absorbed in Popular Mechanics, Car and Driver and Track and Traffic, when the foreman came and said the mechanic wanted to see them; he showed them to the repair shop.

The mechanic was waiting for them under the Volkswagen, which was kept at the proper height by means of a hydraulic lift. Blond and blue-eyed, solidly built, he appeared to be about fifty. The black cat was perched on his shoulder.

“I found this in the Volkswagen,” he said, handing the cat to the girl.

His voice was soft and he spoke French to her with a slight accent that betrayed his German origin.

“It’s an odd sort of cat,” he said. “He’s got no fear of noise and he wants to watch everything I’m doing. What’s his name?”

“Chop Suey,” said the girl.

“I like cats a lot . . . Your tune-up was just about perfect. I just slowed down the motor a few rpm: that’ll save you a little gas.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Jack walked over and began to peer at the underside of the Volkswagen.

“How’s the Volks?” he asked.