The night, in its stillness, moved on.
Patrolman Fleury finished accompanying Highball Harry on a concluding escapade which covered a posh lifting of the filthy old Pasha of Dharwikistan’s pecan-sized emeralds. He shut the book upon Harry’s virtuous pledge that one half the profit of the fenced loot would be sent anonymously to the Society for Underprivileged Derelicts. The destination for the other half was, of course, too silly to mention.
Fleury stood, stretched, and lumberingly catfooted his way back to the summer kitchen where a pot of coffee had been left for him on the stove.
Upstairs, Margot woke.
It was pitch night. The moon had set, but no touch of false dawn as yet showed to soften the jet curtain of the sky.
Faint, distantly spaced sounds were recognizable out in her livin
