So now it was all over. They’d stopped the train and put me off because some guy had crashed into me with a car. Maybe he’d even done it deliberately. I cursed and sat up in bed, groping for cigarettes in the hot darkness. I wanted to get my hands on something or somebody and have an accounting. He was dead and beyond reach. But she wasn’t, and maybe she was at the bottom of the whole thing. I thought of the way she looked in that picture, and of the money she or somebody had cheated me of. I lit a cigarette and stared coldly at the match as I blew it out. You should have done it to somebody else, baby, I thought; I don’t like having it done to me. . . .

In the morning, after I’d had some breakfast, I came back to the room and put in a call to Houston. In a moment a girl’s voice trilled, “Good-morning-Old-Colony-Life-Insurance-Company.”

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Purvis,” I said.

“I beg your pardon. What was the name again?”

“Purvis.”

“I’m sorry, but there’s no one here by that name. Are you sure you have the right number?”

“Of course,” I said impatiently. “He’s an investigator. Works out of the Houston office. This is Houston, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. But we have no Mr. Purvis. Just a moment, please—”

I waited irritably. What was the matter with her? Didn’t she even know who worked there? She came back on. “Hello, I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I just checked with one of the other girls who’s been here longer. There used to be a Mr. Purvis, but he left the company several months ago.”

“Oh,” I said. “I see—” It was a little fast, and it took me a moment to catch up. “Well, look,” I went on hurriedly, before she could hang up, “could you give me his last telephone number or address, off the old personnel records?”

“Just a minute, please.”

I dug up an old envelope and uncapped my pen.