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the rest of the way. Cecil loved house parties—it gave him so much scope for eating, but as he aged, he was getting a paunch, so he’d taken up hiking rather than cutting down his food and drink intake.
    He wouldn’t have come to this house party, and he most definitely wouldn’t have even considered paying to attend, except that one his longtime ambitions had been to meet Julian West. Cecil had spent three years researching for a biography of the man. It was a challenge, but when he started his first draft, he thought it was going to be his best biography. He’d written to Julian West, even gone to his house once, but had been ignored. The time he steeled himself to knock on the door to West’s house, he hadn’t even gotten to say his name before the unsuitably gruff young thug of a butler said, “Mr. West is not expecting a guest. He’s too busy to see you, whatever you want.”
    Mortifying.
    But maybe not West’s fault. He might not know how rude his staff was. And the butler probably didn’t get around to posting letters. Cecil had written West a great many letters and never gotten a response. He’d have to tell West about it. The author would be glad to know. And even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t dare offend such an important literary critic who held the power to influence his sales. Authors were always very nice to critics. The more prestigious the venue of the reviews, the nicer they were.
    Cecil took his notebook and pencil from his lightly loaded rucksack and made a note to remind himself to mention the butler. Cecil had sent his luggage ahead to the Voorburg-on-Hudson station. He wouldn’t be seen carrying a suitcase even for a short distance these days. So many suitcase-laden men of middle age were out of work and living in shelters like the Muni or sleeping on the streets where decent people tripped over them. He did not wish to be mistaken for one of them.
    He hoped the luggage had arrived in good order. He had his only full copy of the draft of the biography he was preparing on Julian West in the suitcase. He was highly nervous that it might be lost and had considered leaving it at home in his safe. But he finally felt so strongly that he should be making notes in the margin of everything West might say, that he’d brought the manuscript along. He had, of course, made carbon copies of the earlier draft, but had been lax about it in the final manuscript.
    When he finally puffed into Voorburg, sweating and gasping, the large case with his clothes and the manuscript were not at the station. It was a cool day, he’d been sweating rather vulgarly and thoroughly, and suddenly he felt very cold indeed.
    “See here, my good man,“ he said to the stationmaster, who was sitting behind his counter with his feet on it and reading a magazine about cars. “My luggage has gone missing.”
    The stationmaster, Mr. Buchanan, who was a law unto himself, gazed up slowly and said, “And who might you be?“
    “Cecil Hoornart—the literary critic. I’m sure you recognize the name.“
    “Not that I know. Lemme take a look around.”
    A train was just coming into the station and two men in cheap blue suits strolled out to the platform to watch the disembarking passengers. Cecil, who kept up with current affairs, knew why this was. Over a hundred thousand federal officers and civilian volunteers were watching roads and train stations, trying to spot anyone who had a chubby, golden-curled baby with them. Charles Lindbergh’s son had been kidnapped the month before and hadn’t yet been found.
    A moment later the door next to the counter opened and Cecil’s pigskin bag was pushed through, the brass studs on the bottom of it scraping on the floor unpleasantly.
    “Excuse me,“ Cecil said. “How do I go about getting to Grace and Favor Cottage?“
    “Oh, you’re one of the Brewsters’ guests? Why didn’t you say? Mr. Brewster was here to pick somebody up from the train, but nobody got off. Just wait in front.