The evening is his best time for sleeping."
"How about Mrs. Regan's maid?"
"Mathilda?
She's here, sir."
"Better get her down here.
The job needs the woman's touch.
Take a look in the car and you'll see why."
He took a look in the car.
He came back. "I see," he said.
"I'll get Mathilda."
"Mathilda will do right by her," I said.
"We all try to do right by her," he said.
"I guess you have had practice," I said.
He let that one go.
"Well, good-night," I said.
"I'm leaving it in your hands." "Very good, sir.
May I call you a cab?"
"Positively," I said, "not. As a matter of fact I'm not here.
You're just seeing things."
He smiled then. He gave me a duck of his head and I turned and walked down the driveway and out of the gates.
Ten blocks of that, winding down curved rain-swept streets, under the steady drip of trees, past lighted windows in big houses in ghostly enormous grounds, vague clusters of eaves and gables and lighted windows high on the hillside, remote and inaccessible, like witch houses in a forest.
I came out at a service station glaring with wasted light, where a bored attendant in a white cap and a dark blue windbreaker sat hunched on a stool, inside the steamed glass, reading a paper.
I started in, then kept going.
I was as wet as I could get already.
And on a night like that you can grow a beard waiting for a taxi.
And taxi drivers remember.
I made it back to Geiger's house in something over half an hour of nimble walking.
There was nobody there, no car on the street except my own car in front of the next house. It looked as dismal as a lost dog.
I dug my bottle of rye out of it and poured half of what was left down my throat and got inside to light a cigarette.
I smoked half of it, threw it away, got out again and went down to Geiger's.
I unlocked the door and stepped into the still warm darkness and stood there, dripping quietly on the floor and listening to the rain.
I groped to a lamp and lit it.
The first thing I noticed was that a couple of strips of embroidered silk were gone from the wall.
I hadn't counted them, but the spaces of brown plaster stood out naked and obvious.
I went a little farther and put another lamp on.
I looked at the totem pole.
At its foot, beyond the margin of the Chinese rug, on the bare floor another rug had been spread. It hadn't been there before.
Geiger's body had.
Geiger's body was gone.
That froze me.
I pulled my lips back against my teeth and leered at the glass eye in the totem pole.
I went through the house again.
Everything was exactly as it had been.
Geiger wasn't in his flounced bed or under it or in his closet. He wasn't in the kitchen or the bathroom.
That left the locked door on the right of the hall.
One of Geiger's keys fitted the lock.
The room inside was interesting, but Geiger wasn't in it.
It was interesting because it was so different from Geiger's room. It was a hard bare masculine bedroom with a polished wood floor, a couple of small throw rugs in an Indian design, two straight chairs, a bureau in dark grained wood with a man's toilet set and two black candles in foot-high brass candlesticks.
The bed was narrow and looked hard and had a maroon batik cover.
The room felt cold.