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clean and close, his hands, straightening books already straight on a table marked REDUCED, were well kept. His speech was modulated, the voice deep but a little old-maidish. His smile regretted. 
    "Peter? He hasn't been in here for months." 
    Here meant OATS & NORWOOD:  ANTIQUARIAN BOOKS , in one of those arcades of shops favored in El Molino. Tall wrought-iron gates standing open in a thick archway to a courtyard paved with terra-cotta squares and enclosed by buildings of rough white stucco with roofs of curved red tile. Olive trees, dusty green and gray. A fountain weeping into algaed water from beneath the sandaled feet of a stained cement Saint Francis blessing stained cement doves. Real doves grieved overhead. The noise of lateafternoon street traffic was muted. 
    The shop was dim and hushed. But it probably was dim and hushed at high noon too. Its centerpiece was a big eighteenthcentury globe of the world, rich with mottled greens and browns, cradled in a curved rack of time-mellowed wood. Dave spun it idly on its brass axis. His fingers came away dusty. 
    "Since his father burned himself?" 
    Norwood nodded. "He left home about that time. Went to live with a girl in Arena Blanca. The same girl John went to after his discharge from the hospital." 
    "You know her name. She worked here." 
    Norwood smiled chagrin. "April Stannard. I've made a habit of avoiding it." 
    "For whose sake? I get the impression she was the only one, aside from Peter, who gave a damn for him. His wife walked out." 
    "Is that the way April tells it?" 
    "It's what she told me. Isn't it true?" 
    Norwood didn't answer. His hands stopped fidgeting with the books and he shifted his eyes. To a woman who stopped in the doorway. Dark glasses, blond wig, fringed leather bolero over a white turtleneck jersey, fringed leather shoulder-strap purse at the hip of her white slacks. 
    "Eve," Norwood said. "This man is from the company that insured John's life. He's looking for Peter." 
    The light was behind her. Dave couldn't see her expression, but she went very still for a second. Then she came to him in squeaky straw sandals with flat heels that clacked. She stood close, took off the dark glasses, frowned. She was very blond. But time hadn't done her creamy skin any kindnesses. It was webbed like a winter-morning window in snow country. She was tall for a woman and looked strong, not heavy but strong. "Why Peter?" she said. "I was John's beneficiary." 
    "I'm afraid not, Mrs. Oats. He must have made a change when the two of you separated." 
    "But — " She didn't go on. She shut her mouth hard, turned abruptly and went fast through a doorway in a wall of books at the rear of the shop. Norwood drew a sharp breath. He started to reach after her. He didn't call out. He dropped the hand. He looked sick. As he stared at Dave, the corner of his mouth twitched. His voice came out a croak. 
    "There must be some mistake." He almost ran for a counter where a telephone squatted by a beautiful old cash register of pierced cast iron. "I'll call." He snatched up the receiver. "What's the number there?" 
    Dave's watch read 5:25. "The switchboard will be closed," he said. "But there's no mistake." He laid a card on the counter. "Call tomorrow. They'll tell you." 
    Numbly Norwood lowered the phone into place. In the room beyond the wall of books there was quiet light now and a bottleneck rattled against a glass. Norwood heard it too. A dry tongue touched his lips. He gave a pained smile. "Well, I suppose you must be right. It's just such a shock. I apologize for getting excited." He flicked a glance at the door to the back room. In shadow above it, ghostly pale, a bust of Antinous bowed its head. "Look, would you excuse us now?" 
    "For drinks?'Dave said. "I'd even join you if you asked me." Norwood jerked with surprise. "Why, I — " He smiled, stopped smiling, smiled again. "Of — of course. Pleasure. Eve?" He turned, rubbing nervous hands. "Mr." — he