The fuel truck came the following afternoon driven by a big, jovial red-faced man. His size was reassuring, and I snatched at the opportunity of following him down to the basement. I had no idea what I’d find there. He puttered, tinkered, and fiddled with pipes, whistling all the while he went about his work. “When’s the last time you had this smoke pipe cleaned?” he said, hustling round the furnace adjusting nozzles and gauges. “You gotta keep the flue open,” he went right on, not waiting for my answer. “Clean. Know what I mean?” He brushed past me, the beam of his light swiveling round the cellar, poking into corners. All the while he chattered, my eyes ransacked the place for signs of Richard Atlee. I checked the cupboard and found the books and other mementos exactly where I’d left them. I wanted to get back into the crawlspace while I had the security of the driver down there with me.
