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went down to the big front room. Mrs. Broadhurst had rested her head against the back of the chair. Her closed face was smooth and peaceful, and she was snoring gently.
    I heard the rising roar of a plane coming in low over the mountain. I went out the back door in time to see its red spoor falling on the fire. The plane grew smaller, its roar diminuendoed.
    Two deer—a doe and a fawn—came down the slope in a dry creek channel, heading for the grove. They saw me and rockinghorsed over a fallen log into the trees.
    From the rear of the cabin a washed-out gravel lane overgrown with weeds meandered toward the ridge road. Starting along the lane toward the trees, I noticed wheel tracks in the weeds leading off toward a small stable. The wheel tracks looked new, and I could see only one set of them.
    I followed them to the stable and peered in. A black convertible that looked like Stanley’s stood there with the top down. I found the registration in the dash compartment. It was Stanley’s all right.
    I slammed the door of the convertible. A noise that sounded like an echo or a response came from the direction of the trees. Perhaps it was the crack of a stick breaking. Iwent out and headed for the partly burned grove. All I could hear was the sound of my own footsteps and a faint sighing which came from the wind in the trees.
    Then I made out a more distant noise which I didn’t recognize. It sounded like the whirring of wings. I felt hot wind on my face, and glanced up the slope.
    The wall of smoke that hung above the fire was leaning out from the mountain. At its base the fire was burning more brightly and had changed direction. Outriders of flame were leaping down the slope to the left, and firemen were moving along the ridge road to meet them.
    The wind was changing. I could hear it rattling now among the leaves—the same sound that had wakened me in West Los Angeles early that morning. There were human noises, too—sounds of movement among the trees.
    “Stanley?” I said.
    A man in a blue suit and a red hard hat stepped out from behind the blotched trunk of a sycamore. He was a big man, and he moved with a kind of clumsy lightness.
    “Looking for somebody?” He had a quiet cool voice, which gave the effect of holding itself in reserve.
    “Several people.”
    “I’m the only one around,” he said pleasantly.
    His heavy arms and thighs bulged through his business clothes. His face was wet, and there was dirt on his shoes. He took off his hard hat, wiping his face and forehead with a bandana handkerchief. His hair was gray and clipped short, like fur on a cannonball.
    I walked toward him, into the skeletal shadow of the sycamore. The smoky moon was lodged in its top, segmented by small black branches. With a quick conjurer’s motion, the big man produced a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and thrust it toward me.
    “Smoke?”
    “No thanks. I don’t smoke.”
    “Don’t smoke cigarettes, you mean?”
    “I gave them up.”
    “What about cigars?”
    “I never liked them,” I said. “Are you taking a poll?”
    “You might call it that.” He smiled broadly, revealing several gold teeth. “How about cigarillos? Some people smoke them instead of cigarettes.”
    “I’ve noticed that.”
    “These people you say you’re looking for, do any of them smoke cigarillos?”
    “I don’t think so.” Then I remembered that Stanley Broadhurst did. “Why?”
    “No reason, I’m just curious.” He glanced up the mountainside. “That fire is starting to move. I don’t like the feel of the wind. It has the feel of a Santa Ana.”
    “It was blowing down south early this morning.”
    “So I’ve heard. Are you from Los Angeles?”
    “That’s right.” He seemed to have all the time he needed, but I was tired of fooling around with him. “My name is Archer. I’m a licensed private detective, employed by the Broadhurst family.”
    “I was wondering. I saw you come out of the stable.”
    “Stanley