"How?"
"I'm in the same fix, Kitten."
"You're an unknown killer?"
"No. One of the victims."
"This I got to hear."
He shrugged. "Let's have another drink. I'll tell you about it if you swear to keep it quiet."
I reached out with both arms and touched the crowd surrounding the bar. "On a stack of agency men."
Jake snorted. We had another drink and he unloaded the letter story in a low voice, his eyes flashing angrily, his fists clenching and unclenching. He had a set of photostats in his pocket, but he wouldn't show them to me then ... not in Sabatini's with half the business leaning over our shoulders warning Romo to leave the garbage out of the old-fashioneds. When he was finished, Lennox looked at me expectantly.
"You're a mystery writer, Kitten. How would you crack this one?"
"When I plot 'em," I said, "I've got sense enough to give myself a gimmick to get out on. A left-handed man pulls matches from the left side of the book. The U. S. didn't mint any silver dollars from 1909 to 1921. All ticket punches have different designs ... and so on. Where's your gimmick?"