In the Long Spoon was utter silence. Every eye was on the Monk as he took a stool at one end of the bar, and ordered.

He looked alien, and was. But he seemed_ supernatural.

He used the oddest of drinking systems. I keep my house brands on three long shelves, more or less in order of type. The Monk moved down the top row of bottles, right to left, ordering a shot from each bottle. He took his liquor straight, at room temperature. He drank quietly, steadily, and with what seemed to be total concentration.

He spoke only to order.

He showed nothing of himself but one hand. That hand looked like a chicken’s foot, but bigger, with lumpy-looking, very flexible joints, and with five toes instead of four.

At closing time the Monk was four bottles from the end of the row. He paid me in one-dollar bills, and left, moving steadily, the hem of his robe just brushing the floor. I testify as an expert: he was sober. The alcohol had not affected him at all.

“Monday night,” I said. “He shocked the hell out of us. Morris, what was a Monk doing in a bar in Hollywood? I thought all the Monks were in New York.”

“So did we.”

“Oh?”

“We didn’t know he was on the West Coast until it hit the newspapers yesterday morning. That’s why you didn’t see more reporters yesterday. We kept them off your back. I came in last night to question you, Frazer. I changed my mind when I saw that the Monk was already here.”

“Question me. Why? All I did was serve him drinks.”

“Okay, let’s start there. Weren’t you afraid the alcohol might kill a Monk?”

“It occurred to me.”

“Well?”

“I served him what he asked for. It’s the Monks’ own doing that nobody knows anything about Monks. We don’t even know what shape they are, let alone how they’re put together. If liquor does things to a Monk, it’s his own look-out. Let him check the chemistry.”