“Not very. He wanted to be remembered to you and Mrs. Ringgo. How’s the arm this morning?”
“Rotten. I must have let it get too damp last night. It gave me hell all night.”
“Did you see Captain Cat-and-mouse?” Kavalov’s whining voice came from behind me. “And did you find any satisfaction in that?”
I turned around. He was coming down the walk from the house. His face was more gray than brown this morning, but what I could see of his throat, above the v of a wing collar, was uncut enough.
“He was packing when I left,” I said. “Going back to Africa.”