I walked on, ignoring the flames shooting out of 1423.
As I reached the patio of 1467, the flames stopped. It was a queer kind of break. No fadeout, just a stoppage. I took a step backward. No flames this time, but the very worst and very biggest monster of them all. Coming suddenly like that, it got to my spine and stomach, even though I was pretty used to them. I stepped away from it and it was gone.
Number 1467 was different from the other houses, and it wasn't even on fire. It was on two lots, and it had two picture windows, but only one little porch and front door. I guess even the well-to-do have a hard time finding big houses and good building sites and the right neighborhood. The trouble is so many people are well-to-do and there just aren't enough old manses to go around.
I strolled up the stucco path and lifted the wrought-iron knocker, which rang a bell.
The door opened and there was a girl there. She wasn't much compared to the one I put my hand through. But she was all right—brown hair, a nice face underneath the current shades of cosmetics, no figure for a stripper, but it would pass.
"You the maid?" I inquired.
"I am Miss Tompkins," she said.
"Oh. Any relation to Harold J. Tompkins?"
"My father. He died last year."
"Can I see your mother?"