I went over to Galveston and swam in the surf and lay in the sun on the beach until I’d cooked the booze out of my system. The fourth day I was there Purvis caught up with me.

I was staying at one of the beach hotels and was just coming in through the lobby in swim trunks and a terry cloth robe late in the afternoon when a man reading a paper in one of the chairs got up and came toward me. He caught me just as I stepped into the elevator.

“John Harlan?” he asked.

“That’s right,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“Purvis,” he said. “Old Colony Insurance.”

“Save yourself a trip,” I cut him off. “I don’t need any.” But the elevator boy had already closed the door and we were going up.

Purvis shook his head. “I don’t sell it. I’d just like to talk to you a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”

I shrugged. “You an adjuster?” I couldn’t see why they’d be pawing through it now. The whole thing had been settled five months ago.

“Investigator,” he said.

I looked at him then, for the first time, and knew I’d seen him somewhere before. He was about five-ten, and slender, with a built-in slouch, and appeared to be around forty although the hair showing under the beat-up old felt hat was completely gray. His clothes looked as if he dressed by jumping into them from the top of a stepladder. You wouldn’t have given him a second glance, unless the first one had been at his face. It was thin and gray and a little tired, but there was a deadly efficiency about it you couldn’t miss even if you were half asleep. The eyes were gray too, and as impersonal as outer space. I remembered then where I’d seen him before.

“You came to the hospital,” I said.

He nodded.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. I led the way down the corridor, unlocked the door, and stood back for him to go in. The room was on the south side, with a window looking out over the Gulf, but there was little breeze and it was breathless and hot. It was just at sunset and the piled masses of cloud to seaward were fired with red and orange, some of which was reflected back into the room to give it a strange, wine-colored light. He sat down in the armchair near the door, took off his hat and dropped it on the carpet, and fished a pack of cigarettes from the side pocket of his coat. I tossed the robe over the bed and when I turned he was watching me. I walked over to the dresser beyond the foot of the bed and picked up my own cigarettes. As I lit one and dropped the match in a tray I caught sight of him again, in the mirror, and he was still staring at me. It was obvious and deliberate, and he didn’t seem to care at all. I felt like a girl on a runway, and began to get hacked.

He blew out smoke and leaned back in the chair. “Stacked,” he said. “Walk back here again.”

“You that way?” I said. “Beat it.”

He shook his head indifferently. “I’m not trying to make you. Just want to see how you walk.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s professional.”

I came back and sat down on the bed with the cigarette.