The sun began to get hot. We had only two cars left to dust off when I saw a young Negro in peg-top pants and yellow shoes wander on to the end of the lot and begin circling around an old convertible with a lot of gingerbread on it. He kicked the tyres and backed off to look at it.

I nodded to Gulick. “Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll finish it.”

I watched then as I rubbed off the last car. The Negro tried the big air-horn mounted on a fender, and then they both stood there with their hands in their pockets saying nothing at all. Just then a blue Oldsmobile sedan slid in off the street and stopped in front of the office. There was a woman in it, alone. She tapped the horn.

I walked over. “Good morning. Could I help you?”

The baby-blue eyes regarded me curiously. “Oh, hello,” she said. “I was just looking for George.”

“George?”

“Mr. Harshaw,” she explained. And then she added. “I’m his wife.”

“Oh.” It took a second for that to soak in. Gulick hadn’t said Harshaw had married again. “He said he was going out in the country. I think he’ll be back around noon.” She must be a lot younger, I thought; she couldn’t be over thirty. Somehow she made you think of an overloaded peach tree. She wasn’t a big woman, and she wasn’t fat, but there was no wasted space inside the seersucker suit she had on, especially around the hips and the top of the jacket. Her hair was poodle-cut and ash blonde, and her face had the same luscious and slightly over-ripe aspect as the rest of her. Maybe it was the full lower lip, and the dimples.

“Well, thanks anyway,” she said. Then she smiled. “You must be the new salesman. Mr.—uh—”

“Madox,” I said. “Harry Madox.”

“Oh, yes. George told me about you. Well, I won’t keep you from your work.” She switched on the ignition and pressed the starter button. The motor didn’t take hold the first time and she kept grinding at it.