“No.”
“Well, a man came into the Continental office late this afternoon, with a stab in his chest, and died there. Pressed against the wound, as if to stop the bleeding, was a sarong, which is where we got the brown men idea.”
“His name?”
“Rounds, H. R. Rounds.”
The name brought no recognition into Richter’s eyes.
“A tall man, thin, with dark skin?” he asked. “In a grey suit?”
“All of that.”
Richter twisted around to look at the woman.
“Molloy!” he exclaimed.
“Molloy!” she exclaimed.
“So you know him?”
Their faces came back toward me.
“Yes. He was here this afternoon. He left—”
Richter stopped, to turn to the woman again, questioningly.
“Yes, Austin,” she said, putting gauze and scissors on the table, and sitting down beside him on the davenport. “Tell them.”
He patted her hand and looked up at me again with the expression of a man who has seen a nice spot on which to lay down a heavy load.
“Sit down. It isn’t a long story, but sit down.”