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and women with hoses were watering their yards and buildings and the surrounding brush. Their children were watching them, or sitting quietly in cars, ready to go. The smoke towering up from the mountain stood over them like a threat and changed the color of the light.
    The Broadhurst ranch lay between these houses and the fire. We went up the canyon toward it, and left the county road at Mrs. Broadhurst’s mailbox. Her private asphalt lane wound through acres of mature avocado trees. Their broad leaves were shriveling at the tips as if the fire had already touched them. Darkening fruit hung down from their branches like green hand grenades.
    The lane broadened into a circular drive in front of a large and simple white stucco ranchhouse. Under the deep porch, red fuchsias dripped from hanging redwood baskets. At a red glass hummingbird feeder suspended among the baskets, a hummingbird which also seemed suspended was sipping from a spout and treading air.
    The bird didn’t move perceptibly when a woman opened the screen door and came out. She had on a white shirt and dark slacks which showed off her narrow waist. She moved across the veranda with rapid disciplined energy, making the high heels of her riding boots click.
    “Jean darling.”
    “Mother.”
    They shook hands briefly like competitors before a match of some kind. Mrs. Broadhurst’s neat dark head was touched with gray, but she was younger than I’d imagined, no more than fifty or so.
    Only her eyes looked older. Without moving them from Jean’s face, she shook her head from side to side.
    “No, they haven’t come back. And they haven’t been seen in the area for some time. Who’s the blond girl?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Is Stanley having an affair with her?”
    “I don’t know, Mother.” She turned to me. “This is Mr. Archer.”
    Mrs. Broadhurst nodded curtly. “Jean mentioned on the telephone that you’re some kind of detective. Is that correct?”
    “The private kind.”
    She raked me with a look that moved from my eyes down to my shoes and back up to my face again. “I’ve never set much store by private detectives, frankly. But under the circumstances perhaps you can be useful. If the radio canbe believed, the fire has passed the Mountain House and left it untouched. Would you like to come up there with me?”
    “I would. After I talk to the gardener.”
    “That won’t be necessary.”
    “But I understand he gave your son a key to the Mountain House. He may know why they wanted it.”
    “He doesn’t. I’ve questioned Fritz. We’re wasting time, and I’ve already wasted a good deal. I stayed by the telephone until you and Jean got here.”
    “Where is Fritz?”
    “You’re persistent, aren’t you? He may be in the lath house.”
    We left Jean standing white-faced and apprehensive in the shadow of the veranda. The lath house was in a walled garden behind one wing of the ranchhouse. Mrs. Broadhurst followed me in under the striped shadows cast by the roof.
    “Fritz? Mr. Archer wants to ask you a question.”
    A soft-looking man in dungarees straightened up from the plants he was tending. He had emotional green eyes and a skittish way of holding his body, as if he was ready to avoid a threatened blow. There was a livid scar connecting his mouth and his nose which looked as if he had been born with a harelip.
    “What is it this time?” he said.
    “I’m trying to find out what Stanley Broadhurst is up to. Why do you think he wanted the key to the guest house?”
    Fritz shrugged his thick loose shoulders. “I don’t know. I can’t read people’s minds, can I?”
    “You must have some idea.”
    He glanced uncomfortably at Mrs. Broadhurst. “Am I supposed to spit it all out?”
    “Please tell the truth,” she said in a forced tone.
    “Well, naturally I thought him and the chick had hanky-pankyin mind. Why else would they want to go up there?”
    “With my grandson along?” Mrs. Broadhurst said.
    “They wanted me to