her?"

"No. I do think this. Somethinghappened between you, or something was said, that might explain why she left sosuddenly. Give it some thought, will you?"

Slowly, perhaps involuntarily, he raisedhis head and looked up at the sun. Under his tilted beard his neck was pale andscrawny. It gave the impression that he was wearing the kind of mask Greekactors wore, covering him completely from my eyes.

"No. Nothing was said like that."

"Was there any trouble between you?"

"No."

"Why did she let you come to her room?"

"I guess she was interested in mystory. I talked to her on the house phone, said she resembled my daughter. Itwas just a foolish impulse. I knew as soon as I saw her that she wasn't."

"Did you make arrangements to see heragain?"

"No. I'd certainly like to."

"Did you wait outside the hotel for her, or agreeto meet her at the bus station?"

"I did not. What are you trying to nail me for?What do you want?"

"Just the truth. I'm not satisfied I've beengetting it from you."

He said in a sudden spurt of fury:"You've got as much as—" He began to regret the outburst before itwas over, and swallowed the rest of the words.

But he turned his back on me and wentinside, slamming the door. I waited for a little while, and gave up on him. Iwalked back along the sandy access lane to our cars.

The blonde woman, Madge Gerhardi, was sitting besideAlex in his red Porsche. He looked up with shining eyes.

"Mrs. Gerhardi has seen her. She's seenDolly."

"With Begley?"

"No, not with him." She openedthe door and squeezed out of the little car. "It was at that garage thatspecializes in fixing foreign cars. I drive an MG myself, and I had it in for alube job. The girl was there with an old woman. They went away together in anold brown Rolls. The girl was doing the driving."

"Are you certain of theidentification?" I showed her the picture again.

She nodded over it emphatically. "I'mcertain, unless she has a twin. I noticed her because she was sostunning."

"Do you know who the old womanwas?"

"No, but the man at the garage oughtto be able to tell you." She gave us directions, and started to edge away."I better get back to the house. I snuck out along the beach, and Chuckwill be wondering where I am."

chapter 4

A mechanic lying face up on a creeper rolledout from under the raised front end of a Jaguar sedan. I saw when he stood upthat he was a plump Mediterranean type with "Mario" embroidered onhis coverall. He nodded enthusiastically when I asked him about the old Rollsand the old lady.

"That's Mrs. Bradshaw. I been lookingafter her Rolls for the last twelve years, ever since she bought it. It'srunning as good now as the day she bought it." He looked at his greasyhands with some satisfaction, like a surgeon recalling a series of difficultbut successful operations. "Some of the girls she gets to drive her don'tknow how to treat a good car."

"Do you know the girl who's drivingher at present?"

"I don't know her name. Mrs. Bradshawhas quite a turnover with her drivers. She gets them from the college mostly.Her son is Dean at the college, and he won't let the old lady do her owndriving. She's crippled with rheumatics, and I think she was in a smashup atone time."

I cut in on Mario's complicatedexplanations and showed him the print. "This girl?"

"Yeah. She was here with Mrs.Bradshaw the other day. She's a new one. Like I said, Mrs. Bradshaw has quite aturnover. She likes to have her own way, and these college girls don't takeorders too well. Personally I always hit it off with Mrs. Bradshaw—"

"Where does she live?"

Alex sounded anxious, and Mario was slightly infectedby his anxiety. "What is it you want with her?"

"She's not the one I'm interested in. The girl ismy wife."

"You and her are on the outs?"

"I don't know. I have to talk to her."

Mario looked up at the highcorrugated-iron roof of the garage. "My wife divorced me a couple yearsago. I been putting on weight ever since. A man don't have the samemotivation."

"Where does Mrs. Bradshaw live?"I said.

"Foothill Drive, not too far from here.Take the first cross street to the right, it runs into it. You can look up thehouse number in the phone book, on the desk there. It's in her son's name, RoyBradshaw."

I thanked him. He lay down on the creeperand slid back under the Jaguar. The directory was under the telephone on top ofthe battered desk which stood in a corner. I found the listing: "RoyBradshaw, 311 Foothill Drive."

"We could phone from here," Alex said.

© Alexander Sviyash, 2009