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asked. “An affair with a fellow named Blondel?”
    “Yes, quite. But it’s generally not spoken of. What I’m trying to say is that homosexuality is not respectable in England as it seems to have become in the States.”
    That was the first Hob had heard of that, but he didn’t interrupt.
    “Well, this is all very interesting,” Hob said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bower?”
    Timothy Bower pursed his lips and looked uncomfortable. He had a rather handsome, tanned face, was probably in his early forties, and didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He finally brought them to rest on the knees of his sharply creased gray-worsted trousers and said, “This is an extremely upsetting thing—one’s own brother being murdered.”
    “Yes,” Hob said with scant sympathy. “But better than the other way around, don’t you think?”
    Bower let that pass. “The French police seem to have no idea who did it. Do you?”
    “Not a clue. It’s not my concern, anyhow.”
    “I don’t trust the French,” Timothy said. “Especially not in a matter concerning the murder of a gay foreigner.”
    Hob shrugged. He didn’t feel very sympathetic.
    “Stanley and I were never close,” Timothy said. “I’m regular army. You know how the British army is. Among career officers it’s like a club. Gays definitely need not apply. Don’t get me wrong. I am not myself prejudiced. I wasn’t personally ashamed of Stanley, but I’ll be frank to tell you I didn’t want him around. Not with the sort of friends I’ve got. Damned good fellows, don’t get me wrong, but for them a homosexual man is a joke. And Stanley was not discreet in his behavior. No reason he should be, I suppose. In a perverse sort of way it shows the family training. The pater taught us never to be ashamed. But none of us ever thought we’d have a homosexual in the family.”
    Don’t be ashamed of yourself unless you have something to be ashamed of, was the way Hob read that one.
    “Still, there it is. I feel badly about it. I rather liked Stanley, though I detested his way of life. And Stanley was my brother. I don’t want to simply see this thing pushed under the rug. I believe it’s common knowledge the French police don’t bother much with cases like this.”
    “Don’t kid yourself,” Hob said. “The French police are damned good, and they don’t push any kind of murder under the rug.”
    “But what can they do? From what Fauchon told me, this doesn’t appear to be a case of local gay bashing. Stanley might have been killed by someone from Ibiza. If that’s so, whoever it was is back there by now. Don’t you agree?”
    “It does look like someone set Stanley up.”
    “It’s clear to me this thing probably has international ramifications. But this police inspector, this Fauchon, he’s not going to fly down to your island and try to run it down, is he?”
    “Of course not,” Hob said. “As yet there’s no reason to. But you can be sure he’ll make enquiries.”
    “Yes, I suppose he will. And the Spanish police will say we’ll look into it, mañana, and if anyone happens to wander into the station house and confesses to it, we’ll be happy to take him into custody, as long as it’s not siesta time. No, it’s simply not good enough. I want more done than that.”
    “What is it you want done?” Hob asked.
    “You’re a private detective. I want you to find his killer.”
    “All right, let’s talk about it,” Hob said. “First of all, given what little we know now, it might not be possible. Second, if by some stroke of luck I do find out who did it, that doesn’t mean I can prove it. What I’m saying is, even if I can find out who killed Stanley, an arrest may not be possible.”
    “Well, I’m sure you’ll do your best,” Timothy said. “I believe I understand the position. It may be a forlorn hope. But I feel one should do something.”
    “All right,” Hob said.
    Timothy took out his checkbook and a fountain pen