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your hand. Where did it come from?”
    “Probably the Jaguar.”
    “Your car, you mean?”
    “It isn’t my car.”
    “The hell it isn’t. I got a witness saw you drive away from the scene of the crime.”
    “I wasn’t in it. The man who was in it just stole my car.”
    “Don’t give me that. You can fool a fireman with it. I’m a cop.”
    “Was it woman trouble?” Barney said over his shoulder. “If it was a woman, we can understand it. Crime of passion, and all. Shucks,” he added lightly, “it wouldn’t even be second-degree, probably. You could be out in two-three years. Couldn’t he, Conger?”
    “Sure,” Conger said. “You might as well tell us the truth now, get it over with.”
    I was getting bored with the game. “It wasn’t a woman. It was seaweed. I’m a seaweed-fancier from way back. I like to sprinkle a little of it on my food.”
    “What’s that got to do with Culligan?”
    Barney said from the front seat: “He sounds to me like he’s all hopped up.”
    Conger leaned across me. “Are you?”
    “Am I what?”
    “All hopped up?”
    “Yeah. I chew seaweed, then I orbit. Take me to the nearest launching pad.”
    Conger looked at me pityingly. I was a hophead. The pity was gradually displaced by doubt. He had begun to grasp that he was being ragged. Very suddenly, his face turned dusky red under the tan. He balled his right fist on his knee. I could see the packed muscles tighten under the shoulder of his blouse. I pulled in my chin and got ready to roll with the punch. But he didn’t hit me.
    Under the circumstances, this made him a good cop. I almost began to like him, in spite of the handcuffs. I said:
    “As I told you before, my name is Archer. I’m a licensed private detective, retired sergeant from the Long Beach P.D. The California Penal Code has a section on false arrest. Do you think you better take the jewelry off?”
    Barney said from the front seat: “A poolroom lawyer, eh?”
    Conger didn’t say anything. He sat in pained silence for what seemed a long time. The effort of thought did unexpected things to his heavy face. It seemed to alarm him, like a loud noise in the night.
    The car left the county road and climbed Sable’s hill. A second sheriff’s car stood in front of the glass house. Sable climbed out, followed by a heavy-set man in mufti.
    Sable looked pale and shaken. “You took your time about getting here.” Then he saw the handcuffs on my wrists. “For heaven’s sake!”
    The heavy-set man stepped past him, and yanked the car door open. “What’s the trouble here?”
    Conger’s confusion deepened. “No trouble, Sheriff. We picked up a suspect, claims he’s a private cop working for Mr. Sable.”
    The sheriff turned to Sable. “This your man?”
    “Of course.”
    Conger was already removing the handcuffs, unobtrusively, as if perhaps I wouldn’t notice they’d ever been on my wrists. The back of Barney’s neck reddened. He didn’t turn around, even when I stepped out of the car.
    The Sheriff gave me his hand. He had a calm and weathered face in which quick bright eyes moved with restless energy. “I’m Trask. I won’t apologize. We all make mistakes. Some of us more than others, eh, Conger?”
    Conger didn’t reply. I said: “Now that we’ve had our fun, maybe you’d like to get on the radio with the description of my car and the man that took it.”
    “What man are we talking about?” Trask said.
    I told him, and added: “If you don’t mind my saying so, Sheriff, it might be a good idea for you to check with the Highway Patrol yourself. Our friend took off in the direction of San Francisco, but he may have circled back.”
    “I’ll put out the word.”
    Trask started toward his radio car. I held him for a minute: “One other thing. That Jaguar ought to be checked by an expert. It may be just another stolen car—”
    “Yeah, let’s hope it isn’t.”

chapter
6
    T HE dead man was lying where he had fallen, on a patch of