"And it's a good thing too," Timmy said. "Four might have put a dent in your self-esteem."

"You never know."

Schuylers Landing was one of those old Hudson River villages whose existence grew precarious in the last century when

bridges replaced ferries but which had somehow survived into the age of antique shops, upscale country-charm emporia, and bed-and-breakfasts for purposes of leisure instead of necessity.

According to the waitress in the breezy riverfront cafe where Timmy and I had a couple of nice Gruyere-and-guacamole panini for lunch, Steven St. James's address was inland, away from the river, and south of the center town on a road off Route 9G.

We found the place with no trouble. St. James lived—Mellors-like—in a converted outbuilding a hundred yards from the house that 175 years earlier would have been the centerpiece of a prosperous landowner's estate. The main house was a brick federal-style manse surrounded by clumps of lavender irises and a couple of immense oak trees that were as graceful as ferns.

St. James's much smaller white clapboard place looked as if it had once been a kind of barn or storage building. It had a board fence around it with wire cattle fencing tacked to the boards, probably to pen in the two dogs that, as Timmy and I stood at the gate, peered at us with interest. One was a big black lab, the other a collie. The gravel parking area outside the fence was empty except for my Mitsubishi. We saw no sign of St. James's VW Rabbit.

"Hello!" I yelled. "Anybody home?"

"These dogs look friendly enough," Timmy said. "Why don't we just walk up and knock at the door?"

"They're friendly, yes. But look—they're slobbering."

"That was a close call, Commando Don."

"Oh, okay, come on."

I unlatched the gate, and Timmy followed me in. I shut the gate and we walked up to St. James's house, the dogs snuffling obsequiously and salivating on our hands.

"We have to remember to get a couple of these," Timmy said.

"Uh-huh."

I knocked at the door.

After a moment Timmy said, "It's eerily quiet."

"Well, it's quiet."

I knocked again. When I got no response I walked across the

shaggy lawn and peered through a window. I saw a living room-dining room with a couch, some chairs and tables, a desk with a PC on it, and shelves with a lot of books. I strained to make out the titles, but it was dim in the house and I had no success. The newspaper on the couch appeared to be the Catskill Daily Mail, the nearest daily paper. Timmy tried to distract the dogs while I walked around behind the house, but they wanted to come along with me, so we all went, the dogs wetly licking any exposed human skin they could get at.

"These doggies are soon going to need a drink of water," Timmy said.

I peered into a back window and saw a kitchen that was unremarkable. A door leading into it was next to the window, and I turned the knob. Locked.

"I don't think this is legal," Timmy said. "A man's home is his castle. It's English common law, going way back."

A voice said, "Is there something I can help you with perhaps?" The voice was male and its tone unfriendly.

We turned to see a man who was not Steven St. James striding around the corner of the house. He was about seventy and distinguished-looking in a Windsor-ish, end-of-the-line kind of way, and was wearing—weirdly for a sunny afternoon in May—what once had been called, and maybe still was called in the better houses of the Hudson valley, a smoking jacket. His royal-blue display handkerchief matched his ascot.

"Hi, I'm looking for Steven St. James," I said. "I'm Don Strachey and this is Timothy Callahan, and we're old friends of Steven's. Any idea where he is?"

The debonair man had four fingers of his right hand thrust into the pocket of his jacket, like a J. Press model striking a pose in 1932, and he did not remove his hand to shake the one I extended.

"I don't believe Steven was expecting you," the man said coldly. "He never mentioned to me that he was expecting visitors." The dogs paced around restlessly but did not approach the man in the jacket.

"We just decided to pop in at the last minute," Timmy said. "But I guess Steve's not here."

"No, of course Steven is not here. The farm is open now."

The farm. When he didn't elaborate, I said, "You must be Steven's neighbor."

"Yes, I am. Steven is my tenant and my neighbor. And my friend."

"Oh, so you must be—"

"Going now. And so, may I suggest, should you."

"Okay. Love your cologne," I said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's the same cologne Steven uses. I got a good whiff of it the other day when I spent some time with Steven in Albany."

His perfect posture weakened a little. "Steven was in Albany?"

"On Friday. How you gonna keep 'em down on the farm after they've seen Central Avenue?"

Timmy glowered at me and began to move around the man in the jacket. The snuffling dogs followed Timmy.

"Tell me your names again," the man said, with much less self-assurance than before, "and I'll let Steven know that you called."

I brought out one of my cards and handed it to him. "Ask him to get in touch with me some time this weekend. Otherwise I can look him up at the farm. Thank you."

"You're welcome." He blushed—blushed—and said, "I knew Steven had other friends in Albany. That I understood. I can't object to that. It's just that—I never met any of them before."

Timmy said, "Well, we aren't close friends of Steven or anything. Not that close."

"Oh. I see." But he looked unconvinced.

As we drove away, Timmy said, "You were awfully nasty with that guy."

"He was awfully nasty with us."

"Of course. We were trespassing on his property. Also, he felt threatened. He's probably buying himself—directly or

indirectly—a little comfort not otherwise available to someone so geographically and otherwise isolated."

I said, "There were two cars in his driveway, a Continental and a Caddy. I'll bet he's married."

"So?"

"So he's sucking a dick that's been God knows where and bringing who knows what in the way of viruses and bugs and bacteria into that house."

"That is wild, wild speculation, Don. You don't know if that man so much as enjoyed a glass of port with St. James. And you certainly have no idea what St. James does or did in Albany with Bierly or Haig or Crockwell or anybody else."

"No, but on the latter point I do know that when I pressed St. James on the subject, he told me in a panic, 'You don't want to know,' and then he fled."

"You're right. There's that."

"St. James will get the word from Lord Chatterley that I know where he lives and he'll think I know where he works. For those reasons, I think Steven will be ready to enlighten me as to what he says I don't want to know, even though I do, I do."

"I see what you mean when you put it that way. You're kind of pissed off, aren't you?"

"Shouldn't I be?"

"Yes, I understand that. But it's not pretty."

"Something even less pretty got Paul Haig murdered and Larry Bierly shot."

"I guess I should try to keep all that in perspective."

"Do. You can do something else too."

"What?" His tone was apprehensive.