I jerked my thumb towards the bungalow.
‘In there?’
‘Wherever she is, she’s still busy,’ the boy said and moved off.
I was about to yell after him when from behind the repair shop came a tall, immaculate figure in a light check lounge suit, a snap-brimmed brown hat well over one eye and a blood-red carnation in his buttonhole: Jeff Barratt.
I sat still and watched him, knowing he couldn’t see me through the dark blue sunshield.
He gave the Buick a casual stare before climbing into the Bentley. He drove off towards Beechwood Avenue.
The boy had gone into the repair shop. I had an idea he was watching me, although I couldn’t see him. I waited a moment or so, thinking. Was it a coincidence that Barratt had appeared here? I didn’t think so. Then I remembered Mifflin had told me Lute Ferris was a suspected marijuana smuggler. I knew Barratt smoked the stuff. Was that the hook-up between them? Was it also a coincidence that Mary Jerome should have picked on his out-of-the-way garage from which to hire a car? Again I didn’t think so. I suddenly realized I was making discoveries and progress for the first time since I started on this case. I decided to take a look at Mrs. Ferris.
I got out of the Buick, and set off along the concrete path that led past the repair shop to the bungalow.
The boy was standing in the shadows, just inside the door of repair shop. He stared at me woodenly as I passed. I stared right back at him.
He didn’t move or say anything, so I went on, turned the comer of the shed and marched up the path to the bungalow.