The old attendant glanced up, eyed him over and gave him a surprised nod.
“You’re late, mister.”
“Yes,” Ken said, and his eyes searched the hut.
There was a table near the window. Among the collection of old newspapers, a saucepan and a gas-ring, some dirty china mugs and a still dirtier hand towel, on the table was a dog-eared notebook, opened about half-way.
Ken moved closer.
“Some storm,” he went on. “I’ve been waiting for it to clear.”
His eyes took in the open page of the notebook. It contained a neatly written list of car numbers: third from the bottom was his own number.
“Still raining,” the attendant said, busy lighting a foul-smelling pipe. “Well, I guess we can do with it. Got a garden, mister?”
“Sure,” Ken said, trying to control the shake in his voice. “This must be the first rain we’ve had in ten days.”
“That’s right,” the attendant said. “Do you grow roses, mister?”