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opening onto a secluded walled garden full of standard rose trees that were giving of their best.
    J. Wilbur Jefferson was reclining on a bed-chair, fitted with wheels. He lay in the shade just outside the double windows: an old man, tall, thin and aristocratic with a big hooked nose, skin as yellow as old ivory, hair like white spun glass and thin fine hands heavily veined. He was wearing a white linen suit and white buckskin shoes. He turned his head to look at me as I followed Janet West into the garden.
    "Mr. Ryan,'' she said, drawing aside and motioning me forward, then she went away.
    "Use that chair," Jefferson said, pointing to a basket chair close to him. "My hearing isn't as good as it was so I'll ask you to keep your voice up. If you want to smoke . . . smoke. It's a vice I have been forced to give up now for more than six years."
    I sat down, but I didn't light a cigarette. I had an idea he might not like cigarettes. When he had smoked, he would have smoked cigars.
    "I've made inquiries about you, Mr. Ryan," he went on after a long pause while his pale brown eyes went over me intently, giving me the feeling he was looking into my pockets, examining the birthmark on my right shoulder and counting the money in my wallet. "I am told you are honest, reliable and not without intelligence."
    I wondered who could have told him that, but I put my modest expression on my face and didn't say anything.
    "I have asked you here," Jefferson went on, "because I would like to hear first-hand this story of the man who telephoned you and how, later, you found this Chinese woman dead in your office."
    I noted he didn't call her his daughter-in-law. I noted too that when he said 'this Chinese woman', his mouth turned down at the corners and there was distaste in his voice. I guess for a man as old and as rich and as conventional as he, the news that your only son has married an Asian could come as a jar.
    I told him the whole story, remembering to keep my voice up.
    When I had finished, he said, "Thank you, Mr. Ryan. You have no idea what she wanted to see you about?"
    "I can't even make a guess." "Nor have you any idea who killed her?"
    "No." I paused then added, "The chances are this man who calls himself John Hard wick did it or at least he is implicated."
    "I have no confidence in Retnick," Jefferson said. "He is a brainless fool who has no right to his official position. I want the man who murdered my son's wife caught." He looked down at his veined hands, frowning. "Unfortunately, my son and I didn't get along well together. There were faults on both sides as there usually are, but I realise now that he is dead that I could have been much more tolerant and patient with him. I believe my lack of tolerance and my disapproval of his behaviour goaded him to be wilder and more reckless than he would have been if he had been more understood. The woman he married has been murdered. My son wouldn't have rested until he had found her murderer. I know his nature well enough to be sure of this. My son is dead. I feel the least I can do now is to find his wife's murderer. If I succeed, I shall feel I have squared my account with him to some extent" He paused and looked across the garden, his old face hard and sad. The slight breeze ruffled his white hair. He looked very old but very determined. He turned to look at me. "As you can see, Mr. Ryan, I am an old man. I am burnt out. I get tired easily. I am in no physical shape to hunt down a murderer and that is why I have sent for you. You are an interested party. This woman was found in your office. For some reason the murderer has tried to shift the responsibility onto you. I intend to pay you well. Will you find this man?"
    It would have been easy to have said yes, taken his money and then waited hopefully to see if Retnick would turn up the killer, but I didn't work like that. I was pretty sure I didn't stand a chance of finding the killer myself.
    "The investigation is in the hands of the