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all.”
    â€œThat’s all, huh? Did it discomfit the Whists?”
    â€œThey were not in the room, not even in the suite. According to Mr. Whist, when he and his wife returned from dinner in the Tongolele Room, here in the Norvue, they discovered the fire. Apparently it began in a nearby wastebasket, into which he had emptied an ash tray before leaving the suite. It would seem there was still a cigarette smouldering in the ash tray.”
    â€œOnly the bed was damaged?”
    â€œThe mattress and bedclothes were ruined and the bed frame was charred. One wall was scorched considerably. That was all, other than a little smoke damage. Members of the staff were able to prevent the blaze from spreading.” He paused. “Mr. Whist was very apologetic. Of course, he paid handsome—paid for all the damage.”
    â€œGood for him. And then they left, huh? On this—vacation?”
    â€œYes, later that same night.”
    â€œMaybe they wanted to sleep in a bed that hadn’t burned up.”
    He agreed that was possible.
    â€œYou haven’t seen them since?” I asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAnd you’ve no idea where they are now?”
    â€œNo,” he repeated.
    I shrugged. That was enough for the moment—especially since I was probably wasting my time to begin with. So I thanked the desk man and left. Left—after, of course, presenting him with a handsome gratuity.
    I tooled the Cadillac back down to Vine, took a right and followed Vine into North Rossmore. The Spartan was only a block ahead on my left when I noticed that cock-eyed light again. At least I thought I did.
    A small Corvair was directly behind me, but a block or so back one car had pulled out to pass another and then pulled in behind the small job. It was the second car back now, but when the driver had pulled into the left lane the headlights bounced on my rear-view mirror, and the left light was high, glaring.
    I felt that queer, cool-nettle prickling beneath the surface of my back, as if the temperature of my spinal column had dropped a degree or two; I reached under my coat and rested my thumb on the butt of the Colt Special, handy in its clamshell holster there.
    Then I slowed down, let the Corvair creep up on me, creep up and pass. I went on past the Spartan to Beverly Boulevard, pulled up at a stop sign there. The other car idled behind me, but I wasn’t able to see who was at the wheel. I didn’t delay overlong at the stop, just sat there a few seconds and then swung left into Beverly, as if heading back toward L.A.
    The other car—it was a dark sedan, a late-model Dodge Polara—turned right, away from me. That wasn’t what I’d expected. I drove on slowly, watching the Dodge as long as I could. It kept going straight up Beverly. Then I turned, headed back to the Spartan.
    So, maybe I was nuts. Maybe it was a coincidence. Or even a different car with a cock-eyed headlight.
    And maybe not.
    Home is apartment 212, three rooms and bath complete with two tropical fish tanks, Amelia—jazzy nude in bold oils—on the wall, yellow-gold carpet with thick shag nap on the living room floor; and on the carpet a low, chocolate-brown divan, two leather hassocks, the much-scarred coffee-and-booze table, and in the air—faint but still detectable by an expectant nostril—the scent of soft, and sweet, and spicy, and slinky perfumes and sprays and lotions.
    Or maybe I imagined it. Lots of memories in that room. In all the rooms.
    In the kitchenette I mixed a short bourbon-and-water nightcap, then showered, wrapped a towel around my middle and went back into the front room. For ten minutes I sat before the two aquariums, watching the little devils dart after the threadlike tubifex worms I fed them, and thinking about the three or four hours just past, the murder, nudity, people, motive, means, opportunity, Sybil, Mrs. Halstead, a car with a cock-eyed light.
    After ten minutes of