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south； all colors of the spectrum and crystal clear in an evening without fog； past the shadowed mansions up on the hills to the north； past Beverly Hills altogether and up into the twisting foothill boulevard and the sudden cool dusk and the drift of wind from the sea。
It had been a warm afternoon； but the heat was gone。 We whipped past a distant cluster of lighted buildings and an endless series of lighted mansions； not too close to the road。 We dipped down to skirt a huge green polo field with another equally huge practice field beside it； soared again to the top of a hill and swung mountainward up a steep hillroad of clean concrete that passed orange groves； some rich man's pet because this is not orange country； and then little by little the lighted windows of the millionaires' homes were gone and the road narrowed and this was Stillwood Heights。
The smell of sage drifted up from a canyon and made me think of a dead man and a moonless sky。 Straggly stucco houses were molded flat to the side of the hill； like bas…reliefs。 Then there were no more houses； just the still dark foothills with an early star or two above them； and the concrete ribbon of road and a sheer drop on one side into a tangle of scrub oak and manzanita where sometimes you can hear the call of the quails if you stop and keep still and wait。 On the other side of the road was a raw clay bank at the edge of which a few unbeatable wild flowers hung on like naughty children that won't go to bed。
Then the road twisted into a hairpin and the big tires scratched over loose stones； and the car tore less soundlessly up a long driveway lined with the wild geraniums。 At the top of this； faintly lighted； lonely as a lighthouse； stood an eyrie； an eagle's nest； an angular building of stucco and glass brick； raw and modernistic and yet not ugly and altogether a swell place for a psychic consultant to hang out his shingle。 Nobody would be able to hear any screams。
The car turned beside the house and a light flicked on over a black door set into the heavy wall。 The Indian climbed out grunting and opened the rear door of the car。 The chauffeur lit a cigarette with an electric lighter and a harsh smell of tobacco came back to me softly in the evening。 I got out。
We went over to the black door。 It opened of itself slowly； almost with menace。 Beyond it a narrow hallway probed back into the house。 Light glowed from the glass brick walls。
The Indian growled。 〃Huh。 You go in； big shot。〃
〃After you； Mr。 Planting。〃
He scowled and went in and the door closed after us as silently and mysteriously as it had opened。 At the end of the narrow hallway we squeezed into a little elevator and the Indian closed the door and pressed a button。 We rose softly； without sound。 Such smelling as the Indian had done before was a mooncast shadow to what he was doing now。
The elevator stopped； the door opened。 There was light and I stepped out into a turret room where the day was still trying to be remembered。 There were windows all around it。 Far off the sea flickered。 Darkness prowled slowly on the hills。 There were paneled walls where there were no windows； and rugs on the floor with the soft colors of old Persians； and there was a reception desk that looked as if it had been made of carvings stolen from an ancient church。 And behind the desk a woman sat and smiled at me； a dry tight withered smile that would turn to powder if you touched it。
She had sleek coiled hair and a dark； thin； wasted Asiatic face。 There were heavy colored stones in her ears and heavy rings on her fingers； including a moonstone and an emerald in a silver setting that may have been a real emerald but somehow managed to look as phony as a dime store slave bracelet。 And her hands were dry and dark and not young and not fit for rings。
She spoke。 The voice was familiar。 〃Ah； Meester Marlowe； so ver…ry good of you to e。 Amthor he weel be so ver…ry pleased。〃
I laid the hundred dollar bill the Indian had given me down on the desk。 I looked behind me。 The Indian had gone down again in the elevator。
〃Sorry。 It was a nice thought； but I can't take this。〃
〃Amthor he…he weesh to employ you； is it not？〃 She smiled again。 Her lips rustled like tissue paper。
〃I'd have to find out what the job is first。〃
She nodded and got up slowly from behind the desk。 She swished before me in a tight dress that fitted her like a mermaid's skin and showed that she had a good figure if you like them four sizes bigger below the waist。
〃I weel conduct you；〃 she said。
She pressed a button in the paneling and a door slid open noiselessly。 There was a milky glow beyond it； I looked back at her smile before I went through。 It was older than Egypt now。 The door slid silently shut behind me。
There was nobody in the room。
It was octagonal； draped in black velvet from floor to ceiling； with a high remote black ceiling that may have been of velvet too。 In the middle of a coal black lustreless rug stood an octagonal white table； just large enough for two pairs of elbows and in the middle of it a milk white globe on a black stand。 The light came from this。 How； I couldn't see。 On either side of the table there was a white octagonal stool which was a smaller edition of the table。 Over against one wall there was one more such stool。 There were no windows。 There was nothing else in the room； nothing at all。 On the walls there was not even a light fixture。 If there were other doors； I didn't see them。 I looked back at the one by which I had e in。 I couldn't see that either。
I stood there for perhaps fifteen seconds with the faint obscure feeling of being watched。 There was probably a peephole somewhere； but I couldn't spot it。 I gave up trying。 I listened to my breath。 The room was so still that I could hear it going through my nose； softly； like little curtains rustling。
Then an invisible door on the far side of the room slid open and a man stepped through and the door closed behind him。 The man walked straight to the table with his head down and sat on one of the octagonal stools and made a sweeping motion with one of the most beautiful hands I have ever seen。
〃Please be seated。 Opposite me。 Do not smoke and do not fidget。 Try to relax； pletely。 Now how may I serve you？〃
I sat down； got a cigarette into my mouth and rolled it along my lips without lighting it。 I looked him over。 He was thin； tall and straight as a steel rod。 He had the palest finest white hair I ever saw。 It could have been strained through silk gauze。 His skin was as fresh as a rose petal。 He might have been thirty…five or sixty…five。 He was ageless。 His hair was brushed straight back from as good a profile as Barrymore ever had。 His eyebrows were coal black； like the walls and ceiling and floor。 His eyes were deep； far too deep。 They were the depthless drugged eyes of the somnambulist。 They were like a well I read about once。 It was nine hundred years old； in an old castle。 You could drop a stone into it and wait。 You could listen and wait and then you would give up waiting and laugh and then just as you were ready to turn away a faint； minute splash would e back up to you from the bottom of that well； so tiny； so remote that you could hard