But Ellery, trudging down Hollywood Boulevard in a wool jacket, was hardly aware of the roasting desert heat. He was a man in a dream these days, a dream entirely filled with the pieces of the Hill-Priam problem. So far it was a meaningless dream in which he mentally chased cubist things about a crazy landscape. In that dimension temperature did not exist except on the thermometer of frustration.
Keats had phoned to say that he was ready with the results of his investigation into the past of Hill and Priam. Well, it was about time.
Ellery turned south into Wilcox, passing the post office.
You could drift about in your head for just so long recognizing nothing. There came a point at which you had to find a compass and a legible map or go mad.
This ought to be it.
He found Keats tormenting a cigaret, the knot of his tie on his sternum and his sandy hair bristling.
“I thought you’d never get here.”
“I walked down.” Ellery took a chair, settling himself. “Well, let’s have it.”
“Where do you want it,” asked the detective, “between the eyes?”
“What do you mean?” Ellery straightened.