“Who wears them?”
“Men and women in the Philippines, Borneo, Java, Sumatra, Malay Peninsula, parts of India.”
“Is it your idea that whoever did the carving advertised himself by running around in the streets in a red petticoat?”
“Don’t try to be funny!” he growled at me. “They’re often enough twisted or folded up into sashes or girdles. And how do I know he was knifed in the street? For that matter, how do I know he wasn’t cut down in your joint?”
“We always bury our victims without saying anything about ’em. Let’s go down and give Pete a hand in the search for your brown men.”
That angle was empty. Any brown men who had snooped around the hotel had been too good at it to be caught.
I telephoned the Old Man, telling him what I had learned—which didn’t cost me much breath—and O’Gar and I spent the rest of the evening sharpshooting around without ever getting on the target once. We questioned taxicab drivers, questioned the three Roundses listed in the telephone book, and our ignorance was as complete when we were through as when we started.
The morning papers, on the streets at a little after eight o’clock that evening, had the story as we knew it.
At eleven o’clock O’Gar and I called it a night, separating in the direction of our respective beds.