'Hey, Dad,' said Patrick Corcoran, who had just come in to fix himself another drink. He was slighter than Bun, heavily freckled, but he had Bunny's sandy hair and his sharp little nose.

'Dad, you're all mixed up. That didn't happen to Henry. That was Hugh's old friend Walter Ballantine.'

'Bosh,' said Mr Corcoran.

'Sure it was. And he ended up buying the plane anyway.

Hugh?' he shouted into the next room. 'Hugh, do you remember Walter Ballantine?'

'Sure,' said Hugh, and appeared in the doorway. He had by the wrist the kid Brandon, who was twisting and trying furiously to get away. 'What about him?'

'Didn't Walter wind up buying that little Bonanza?'

'It wasn't a Bonanza,' said Hugh, ignoring with a glacial calm the thrashing and yelps of his son. 'It was a Beechcraft. No, I know what you're thinking,' he said, as both Patrick and his father started to object. 'I drove out to Danbury with Walter to look at a little converted Bonanza, but the guy wanted way too much. Those things cost a fortune to maintain, and there was plenty wrong with it, too. He was selling it because he couldn't afford to keep it.'

'What about this Beechcraft, then?' said Mr Corcoran. His hand had slipped from Henry's shoulder. 'I've heard that's an excellent little outfit.'

'Walter had some trouble with it. Got it through an ad in the Pennysaver, off some retired congressman from New Jersey. He'd used it to fly around in while he was campaigning and '

Gasping, he lurched forward as with a sudden wrench the kid broke free of him and shot across the room like a cannonball.

Evading his father's tackle, he sidestepped Patrick's block as well and, glancing back at his pursuers, slammed right into Henry's abdomen.

It was a hard blow. The kid began to cry. Henry's jaw dropped and every ounce of blood drained from his face. For a moment I was sure he would fall, but somehow he drew himself upright, with the dignified, massive effort of a wounded elephant, while Mr Corcoran threw back his head and laughed merrily at his distress.

I had not entirely believed Cloke about the drugs to be found upstairs, but when I went up with him again I saw he had told the truth. There was a tiny dressing room off the master bedroom, and a black lacquer vanity with lots of little compartments and a tiny key, and inside one of the compartments was a ballotin of Godiva chocolates and a neat, well-tended collection of candy colored pills. The doctor who had prescribed them – E. G. Hart, M. D., and apparently a more reckless character than his prim initials would suggest – was a generous fellow, particularly with the amphetamines. Ladies of Mrs Corcoran's age usually went in pretty heavily for the Valium and so forth but she had enough speed to send a gang of Hell's Angels on a cross-country rampage.

I was nervous. The room smelled like new clothes and perfume; big disco mirrors on the wall reproduced our every move in paranoiac multiple-image; there was no way out and no possible excuse for being there should anyone happen in. I kept an eye on the door while Cloke, with admirable efficiency, went swiftly through the bottles.

Dalmane. Yellow and orange. Darvon. Red and gray. Fiorinal.

Nembutal. Miltown. I took two from each of the bottles he gave me.

'What,' he said, 'don't you want more than that?'

'I don't want her to miss anything.'

'Shit,' he said, opening another bottle and pouring half the contents into his pocket. 'Take what you want. She'll think it was one of her daughters-in-law or something. Here, have some of this speed,' he said, tapping most of the rest of the bottle on my palm. 'It's great stuff. Pharmaceutical. During exams you can get ten or fifteen dollars a hit for this, easy.'

I went downstairs, the right-hand pocket of my jacket full of ups and the left full of downs. Francis was standing at the foot of the steps. 'Listen,' I said, 'do you know where Henry is?'

'No. Have you seen Charles?'

He was half-hysterical. 'What's wrong?' I said.

'He stole my car keys,' 'What?'

'He took the keys out of my coat pocket and left. Camilla saw him pulling out of the driveway. He had the top down. That car stalls in the rain, anyway, but if – shit,' he said, running a hand through his hair. 'You don't know anything about it, do you?'

'I saw him about an hour ago. With Marion.'

'Yes, I talked to her too. He said he was going out for cigarettes, but that was an hour ago. You did see him? You haven't talked to him?'

'No.'

'Was he drunk? Marion said he was. Did he look drunk to you?'

Francis looked pretty drunk himself. 'Not very,' I said. 'Come on, help me find Henry.'

'I told you. I don't know where he is. What do you want him for?'

'I have something for him.'

'What is it?' he said in Greek. 'Drugs?'

'Yes.'

'Well, give me something, for God's sake,' he said, swaying forward, pop-eyed.

He was far too drunk for sleeping pills. I gave him an Excedrin.

'Thanks,' he said, and swallowed it with a big sloppy drink of his whiskey. 'I hope I die in the night. Where do you suppose he went, anyway? What time is it?'

'About ten.'

'You don't suppose he decided to drive home, do you? Maybe he just took the car and went back to Hampden. Camilla said certainly not, not with the funeral tomorrow, but I don't know, he's just disappeared. If he really just went for cigarettes, don't you think he'd be back by now? I can't imagine where else he would have gone. What do you think?'

'He'll turn up,' I said. 'Look, I'm sorry, I've got to go. I'll see you later.'

I looked all over the house for Henry and found him sitting by himself on an army cot, in the basement, in the dark.

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, without moving his head. 'What is that?' he said, when I offered him a couple of capsules.

'Nembutal. Here.'

He took them from me and swallowed them without water.

'Do you have any more?'

'Yes.'

'Give them to me.'

'You can't take more than two.'

'Give them to me.'

I gave them to him. 'I'm not kidding, Henry,' I said. 'You'd better be careful.'

He looked at them, then reached in his pocket for the blue enamel pillbox and put them carefully inside it. 'I don't suppose,' he said, 'you would go upstairs and get me a drink.'

'You shouldn't be drinking on top of those pills.'

'I've been drinking already.'

'I know that.'

There was a brief silence.

'Look,' he said, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. 'I want a Scotch and soda. In a tall glass. Heavy on the Scotch, light on the soda, lots of ice, a glass of plain water, no ice, on the side. That's what I want.'

'I'm not going to get it for you.'

'If you don't go up and get it for me,' he said, Till just have to go up and get it myself.'

I went up to the kitchen and got it for him, except I made it a good deal heavier on the soda than I knew he wanted me to.

That's for Henry,' said Camilla, coming into the kitchen just as I'd finished the first glass and was filling the second with water from the tap.

'Yes.'

'Where is he?'

'Downstairs.'

'How's he doing?'

We were alone in the kitchen. With my eyes on the empty doorway, I told her about the lacquer chest.

'That sounds like Cloke,' she said, laughing. 'He's really pretty decent, isn't he? Bun always said he reminded him of you.'

I was puzzled and a bit offended by this last. I started to say something about it, but instead I set down the glass and r WJ said, 'Who do you talk to on the telephone at three in the morning?'

'What?'

Her surprise seemed perfectly natural. The problem was that she was such an expert actress it was impossible to know if it was genuine.

I held her gaze. She met it unblinking, brows knit, and just when I thought she'd been silent a beat too long, she shook her head and laughed again. 'What's wrong with you?' she said.