“Donald Willsson, Esquire, publisher of the Morning and Evening Heralds , was found in Hurricane Street a little while ago, shot very dead by parties unknown,” he recited in a rapid singsong. “Does that keep your feelings from being hurt?”

“Thanks.” I put out a finger and touched a loose end of his tie. “Mean anything? Or just wearing it?”

“I’m Bill Quint.”

“The hell you are!” I exclaimed, trying to place the name. “By God, I’m glad to meet you!”