He said, “We could talk there.”
“Let’s go — if it won’t inconvenience your wife.”
“No, no. It’s all right. We can go there.” There was relief in his voice.
“Does your wife know anything about the jam you’re in?” I asked.
“She knows all about it.”
I said, “Don’t think I’m taking liberties with your personal affairs, but is your wife’s first name Vivian?”
He said, “Yes.”
No one said anything after that. He drove the car up the main street, turned to the left, climbed a hill, and entered a high-class residential section with modem houses of Spanish-type architecture — white stucco sides and red tile roofs showing to advantage against the dark green of shrubbery — a green which was almost black in the spaces between street lights.
We turned into the driveway and rolled into the garage of a pretentious stucco structure. Dr. Alftmont switched off the headlights and the ignition, and said, “Well, we’re here.”
I got out of the car. Dr. Alftmont led the way towards a door which opened on a flight of stairs, then opened another door, and we entered a hallway. The woman’s voice I’d heard over the telephone said, “Is that you, Charles?”