“Oh, yes, thanks. I’ve eaten.” His handsome red face was reddening. “About last night—I was—”
“Forget it! Nobody likes to have his business pried into.”
“That’s good of you,” he said, twisting his hat in his hands. He cleared his throat. “You said you’d—ah—do—ah—help me if I wished.”
“Yeah. I will. Sit down.”
He sat down, coughed, ran his tongue over his lips.
“You haven’t said anything to anyone about last night’s affair with the soldier?”
“No,” I said.
“Will you not say anything about it?”
“Why?”
He looked at the remains of my breakfast and didn’t answer. I lit a cigarette to go with my coffee and waited. He stirred uneasily in his chair and, without looking up, asked:
“You know Mahmoud was killed last night?”
“The man in the restaurant with you and Einarson?”
“Yes. He was shot down in front of his house a little after midinght.”
“Einarson?”
The boy jumped.
“No!” he cried. “Why do you say that?”