Pat Reddy and I went straight up the bush-hidden path to the yellow house’s front door, and rang the bell.
A big black man in a red fez, red silk jacket over red-striped silk shirt, red zouave pants and red slippers, opened the door. He filled the opening, framed in the black of the hall behind him.
“Is Mr. Maxwell home?” I asked.
The black man shook his head and said words in a language I don’t know.
“ Mr. Elwood, then?”
Another shaking of the head. More strange language.
“Let’s see whoever is home then,” I insisted.
Out of the jumble of words that meant nothing to me, I picked three in garbled English, which I thought were “master,” “not,” and “home.”
The door began to close. I put a foot against it.
Pat flashed his buzzer.
Though the black man had poor English, he had knowledge of police badges.
One of his feet stamped on the floor behind him. A gong boomed deafeningly in the rear of the house.
The black man bent his weight to the door.