I picked up my canvas bag, found the keys that Ms. (it had to be Ms., not Miss, after that shotgun trick) Clavish had removed from my door. I locked up and we left.

Cordelia lived in the French Quarter in a second-story apartment on Ursaline Street. She pointed it out as we drove past on our way to the garage where she parked her car.

“My one unearned luxury,” she explained as she handed the car keys to the attendant. “Granddad hates the idea of my parking on the street, so I let him pay for the garage.”

“Can I ask a rude question?” I said, as we started walking back to her apartment.

“Sure, this is the time of night for rude questions,” she answered amicably.

“Something in your tone of voice says that you’re not totally enamored of your grandfather, but…”

“But I spend a lot of time and effort on him, considering my ambivalent feelings, particularly since I’ve renounced any money he might leave me, you mean?” she finished the question for me.

“Yeah, so why?”

“I feel sorry for him. He’s like a mean bulldog that has had all his teeth taken out. The people that used to be afraid of him, now laugh at him. His heart’s very bad and getting worse since he won’t give up bourbon or cigars. He’s not going to live very much longer. He can be a real bastard, but he has always been kind to me, even when he didn’t have to be. So I feel I owe him something. He’ll probably be dead within the year. I suppose if I thought he’d be around for longer, there are a lot of things I would argue about, but it’s not worth it now.”

“Why did you turn down his money?”

“Because I’m a wonderful, altruistic, noble person.” She smiled at me, then continued, “Well, not quite. Karen, Harry, and I all have trust funds, which we got at twenty-one. It was all set up by our great-grandfather. Tax purposes, I suppose. I find it more than adequate.”

“Karen and Harry don’t?”

“Particularly Karen. Harry’s only twenty-two and has too much money and too little guidance.”

“So you have, as Jane Austen might say, independent means?”

“Right. And I know I’m very lucky. Do I sound like a disgusting rich kid?”

“No, of course not. Disgusting rich children never take home derelicts from the hospital.”

“M. Knight, Derelict Detective, it’s got a certain ring. Why do you do it?”

“P.I. work?”

“Yes. It can’t be the hours, or the money, or the benefits,” Cordelia said as she led me up the stairs to her apartment. “I’m a doctor because I get to save lives, I’m well paid and get a lot of respect. Why do you do what you do?”

“Why not?” It wasn’t really a flip answer, but it would probably take more energy and concentration than I had at the moment to explain it to Cordelia.

In the class which convinced me to study philosophy, I had a white-haired professor by the name of Marsh. She was tall and very straight-backed and made us work very hard. The question she always ended class with was, “Why?” She never answered it, just left it hanging in the air for us to think on if we wanted. For our final exam, that was the test, that one question, “Why?” I remember watching my fellow classmates madly writing answers, sure if they could get enough information on the paper they might include the answer that she wanted. Part of me, the part that Aunt Greta had gotten hold of, wanted to join them and to scribble every pithy line from Aristotle to Arendt. But I didn’t. I decided that Professor Marsh didn’t want us to recite, but to think. Even if what I thought wasn’t terribly brilliant or original, it would still be better than regurgitating what I’d memorized. So I took a deep breath, exchanged my pencil for a pen and wrote, as an answer to “Why?” “Why not?” and handed it in. The rest of the class must have thought I was crazy to hand in my test fifteen minutes after the exam had started.

A week later, Professor Marsh called me into her office to tell me that I had gotten a B. All the mad scribblers got C’s, if they were coherent, D’s and F’s if not. One woman had gotten an A. Her answer was “Because.”

I started to ask Professor Marsh why a “why not” was a B, but a “because” was an A. I said, “Why…?” Then I knew what she would say. And I laughed out loud. Professor Marsh joined in because she knew I had gotten it.

Her answer would have been, “Because…” “Because” implied reason, a positive. “Why not” didn’t give reasons, a negative. And every “why” we posed for Professor Marsh, she would answer with a “because,” not a “why not.”

And I agreed with her.

Some day I would have to explain it to Cordelia. She opened the door to her apartment and let us in.

“That’s it?” she questioned. “‘Why not’?”

“Ever study philosophy?”

“No, have you?”

“Yes, and it would take a very long time to explain. And tonight’s not the night.”

“No, it’s not. But some night you will have to tell me.” Cordelia flipped on a few lights. I caught her suppressing a yawn. It was past midnight.

The apartment was a comfortable two-bedroom, in the state of disorder of someone who hasn’t had time to clean rather than someone who doesn’t bother. I liked the furnishings I saw. It seemed that all the Holloway good taste had landed on Cordelia.

“I’m afraid I’m not going to be a very good host. I have rounds at seven tomorrow morning.” She pointed out the bathroom and told me which bedroom I got.

“That’s okay. I’m not going to be a very good guest. No witty conversation, no compliments on how wonderfully you’ve decorated things, just straight to bed,” I answered.

Cordelia motioned me into the bathroom first, saying she wanted to look at her mail and listen to her phone messages.