“I’m sorry,” she said, in a silky contralto. “This is a private residence and a research center. We see no one without an appointment.”

“The gate was open.”

“We’re expecting the delivery of certain supplies this evening,” she said, “and I leave the gate standing open on such occasions. You see, I’m shorthanded. But why am I boring you with this? Good afternoon…”

And the door began to close.

I held it open with the flat of my hand. “My name is Michael Hammer.”

The green eyes narrowed. “The detective?”

I grinned. “You must get the New York papers up here.”

“We do. Hopeful isn’t the end of the world.”

“It was for Bill Reynolds.”

Her expression softened, and she cracked the door open, wider. “Poor Bill. Were you a friend?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ve come to ask about his death.”

“That’s right.” I shrugged. “I’m a detective.”

“Of course,” she said, opening the door. “And you’re looking into the circumstances. A natural way for you to deal with such a loss…”

She gestured for me to enter, and I followed her through a highceilinged entryway. The hairless ape appeared like an apparition and took my trench coat; I kept my porkpie hat but took it off in deference to my hostess.

In front of me, a staircase led to a landing, then to a second floor; gilt-framed family portraits lined the way. On one side was a library with more leather in bindings and chairs than your average cattle herd; on the other was a formal sitting room where elegant furnishings that had been around long enough to become antiques were overseen by a glittering chandelier.

She led me to a rear room and it was as if, startlingly, we’d entered a penthouse apartment-the paintings on the wall were abstract and modern, and the furnishings were, too, with a television/hi-fi console set-up and a zebra wet bar with matching stools; but the room was original with the house, or at least the fireplace and mantel indicated as much. Over the fireplace was the only artwork in the room that wasn’t abstract: a full-length portrait of my hostess in a low-cut evening gown, a painting that was impossibly lovely with no exaggeration by the artist.

She slipped out of her lab coat, tossing it on a boomerang of a canvas chair, revealing a short-sleeved white blouse providing an understated envelope for an overstated bosom. Undoing her hair, she allowed its length to shimmer to her shoulders. The severe black-framed glasses, however, she left in place.

Her walk was as liquid as mercury in a vial as she got behind the bar and poured herself a martini. “Fix you a drink?”

“Got any beer back there?”

“Light or dark?”

“Dark.”

We sat on a metal-legged couch that shouldn’t have been comfortable but was; she sipped her martini, her dark nyloned legs crossed, displaying well-developed calves. For a scientist, she made a hell of a specimen.

I sipped my beer-it was a bottle of German imported stuff, a little bitter for my taste, but very cold.

“That’s an interesting butler you got,” I said.

“I have to apologize for Bolo,” she said, stirring the cocktail with her speared olive. “His tongue was cut out by natives in the Amazon. My father was on an exploratory trip, somehow incurred the wrath of the natives, and Bolo interceded on his behalf. By offering himself, in the native custom, Bolo bought my father’s life-but paid with his tongue.”

With a kisslike bite, she plucked the olive from its spear and chewed.

“He doesn’t look much like a South American native,” I said.

“He isn’t. He was a Swedish missionary. My father never told me Bolo’s real name… but that was what the natives called him.”

“And I don’t suppose Bolo’s told you, either.”

“No. But he can communicate. He can write. In English. His mental capacity seems somewhat diminished, but he understands what’s said to him.”

“Very kind of you to keep somebody like that around.”

“Like what?”

I shrugged. “Handicapped.”

“Mr. Hammer…”

“Make it Mike-and I’ll call you Victoria. Or do you prefer Vicki?”

“How do you know I don’t prefer ‘Doctor’?”

“Hey, it’s okay with me. I’ve played doctor before.”

“Are you flirting with me, Mike?”

“I might be.”

“Or you might be trying to get me to let my guard down.”

“Why-is it up?”

She glanced at my lap. “You tell me.”

Now I crossed my legs. “Where’s your research lab?”

“In back.”

“Sorry if I’m interrupting…”

“No. I’m due for a break. I’d like to help you. You see, I thought a lot of Bill. He worked hard. He may not have been the brightest guy around, but he made up for it with enthusiasm and energy. Some people let physical limitations get in their way. Not Bill.”

“You must have a thing for taking in strays.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… like Bolo. Like Bill. I understand you took in another handicapped veteran, not so long ago.”

“That’s right. George Wilson.” She shook her head sadly. “Such a shame. He was a hard worker, too-”

“He died the same way as Bill.”

“I know.”

“Doesn’t that strike you as… a little odd? Overly coincidental?”

“Mike, George was a heavy drinker, and Bill was known to tie one on himself. It may be coincidental, but I’m sure they aren’t the first barroom patrons to wobble into the street after closing and get hit by a car.”

“Nobody saw either one of them get hit by a car.”

“Middle of the night. These things happen.”

“Not twice.”

The green eyes narrowed with interest and concern. “What do you think happened, Mike?”

“I have no idea-yet. But I’ll say this-everybody seemed to like Bill. I talked to a lot of people today, and nobody, except maybe the police chief, had an unkind word to say about him. So I’m inclined to think the common factors between Bill and this George Wilson hold the answer. You’re one of those common factors.”

“But surely not the only one.”

“Hardly. They were both war veterans, down on their luck.”

“No shortage of those.”

“And they were both handicapped.”

She nodded, apparently considering these facts, scientist that she was. “Are you staying in Hopeful tonight?”

“No. I got a court appearance in the city tomorrow. I’ll be back on the weekend. Poke around some more.”

She put a hand on my thigh. “If I think of anything, how can I find you?”

I patted the hand, removed it, stood. “Keep your gate open,” I said, putting on my porkpie, “and I’ll find you.”

She licked her lips; they glistened. “I’ll make sure I leave my gate wide open on Saturday.”

I’D gone back into Hopeful to talk to the night shift at the diner, got nowhere, and headed home in the downpour, pissed off at how little I’d learned. Now, with my car in the ditch and rain lashing down relentlessly, I found myself back at the Riddle mansion well before Saturday. The gate was still open, though-she must not have received that delivery she’d talked about, yet.

Splashing through puddles on the winding drive, I kept my trench coat collar snugged around me as I headed toward the towering brick house. In the daytime, the mansion had seemed striking, a bit unusual; on this black night, illuminated momentarily in occasional flashes of lightning, its gothic angles were eerily abstract, the planes of the building a stark, ghostly white.

This time I used the knocker, hammering with it. It wasn’t all that late-maybe nine o’clock or a little after. But it felt like midnight, and instinctively I felt the need to wake the dead.

Bolo answered the door. The lights in the entryway were out, and he was just a big black blot, distinguishable only by that upended Buick shape of his; then the world turned white, him along with it, and when the thunder caught up with the lightning, I damn near jumped.

“Tell your mistress Mr. Hammer’s back,” I said. “My car’s in a ditch and I need-”