The boy looked uncomfortable, but he called the cashier’s name. Dritton⁠—a large man with a smooth pink face, a fringe of white hair around an otherwise bald pink head, and rimless nose glasses⁠—came over to us.

The assistant cashier mumbled the introductions. I shook Dritton’s hand without losing sight of the boy.

“I was just saying,” I addressed Dritton, “that we ought to have a more private place to talk in. He probably won’t confess till I’ve worked on him a while, and I don’t want everybody in the bank to hear me yelling at him.”

“Confess?” The cashier’s tongue showed between his lips.

“Sure.” I kept my face, voice and manner bland, mimicking Noonan. “Didn’t you know that Albury is the fellow who killed Donald Willsson?”