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reflex was to seize my camera, but it was not that important. The probability of coming back here was so slight, what particular evidence could it be?

                 M Y CAR was the third one in the left-hand row. It was hidden by the car in front, and I did not locate it at once. When I finally spied its pig-nosed snout, a man approached rapidly from the direction of the guard house, crunching over the gravel.
    Was he going to ask for more money?
    His face was covered in smiles as he boldly looked me over, slowly, from head to foot. He had an unpleasant glint abouthis eyes. He was on the slim side, and his black coat hung straight down from his wide shoulders, breaking sharply at the pocket, perhaps because of something in it. His somewhat too long sideburns gave him a rather rowdy appearance, which in turn gave the lie to his fixed smile. He had a peculiar way of walking, as if purposely wanting to attract attention with his swagger. Maybe the aggressive impression he made was due to his eyes, which were too close together.
    “Say! You from the detective agency?”
    It was a voice I remembered hearing. There was no stammering, but the timbre was heavy, as if too much saliva had accumulated in his mouth. So that was it: the voice on the telephone that had placed the request on behalf of the woman. My interrogator continued to smile, but I could not answer at once. I was confused, and more than anything I experienced a deep feeling of defeat.
    Frankly, I had given up hope of meeting the man. Perhaps it was because last night’s vigil had proved fruitless and had simply numbed me. I was beginning to have the feeling that it was more difficult to believe that the man existed at all than that he was the actual brother. She could have easily hired a man to make the telephone call in her behalf. On the other hand, suppose it had actually been the brother, the situation would be no better at all. The fact would remain that he was a man who could not be seen—any more than the one who had disappeared. Moreover, having to pretend at such a childish game suggested something very shady. He was playing a game, fully counting on being suspected of complicity. I realized this with a feeling bordering on resignation.
    Apparently, without my realizing it, things were getting to a point where I myself was being drawn into what could be a crime.
    And, yes, there was also the matchbox. I felt that the matchbox itself, independent of the Camellia coffee house, was suspicious. The box had already been opened, and it contained matchsticks with two different kinds of tips.
    White-tipped sticks and black-tipped sticks.
    If I thought about this too much, I had the perilous presentiment that I could not help but tread willy-nilly among the blank spaces on the map. I had no intention of rashly letting my opponent in on these misgivings. That much I knew. The money that had been paid was completely for the benefit and protection of my client, and the pursuit of facts was in all events secondary.
    I gave up. How could I be anything but confused with the appearance of such a fellow as this, just as I had drunk my hangover away with coffee?
    I was at a loss for a reply, and the fellow followed up his advantage, motioning with his head in the direction of the coffee house.
    “Any results? What a coincidence, meeting you here. I imagine we’ve a lot in common to talk about.”
    “A coincidence?” I shot back, my voice unconsciously taking on a challenging tone.
    “Well, it was happenstance, I should imagine.” He looked over his shoulder back to where I had parked my car. “I certainly couldn’t have trailed you here. If I had, our roles would have been reversed.”
    “How did you know me?”
    My companion’s glance dropped an instant to my briefcase with seeming interest.
    “You knew me too, didn’t you? It’s the same thing.”
    It was that strange voice of his that had let me recognize him. And also the too perfect