“Too quiet. He will come in, not often, perhaps, bow, maybe speak, then go away.”
I thought I “got” him. One must be a good spender to appeal to Henri. I could not imagine Johnson Walcott as such. In fact, I could scarcely imagine him coming to Henri’s at all.
“Paquita was quite intimate with Marshall Maddox, wasn’t she?” I ventured again.
Henri brought into play his ready shrug. It was not for him to say anything about his patrons, much less about the dead. Still, his very manner gave the impression that his lips would not frame.
“Did any one ever seem to be watching him here?” I asked, the thought of the sallow-faced man at Westport recurring to my mind.
Henri stopped matching his checks and looked up. Was he growing suspicious of my disinterestedness?
“Such things are not unusual,” he answered, showing a fine assortment of ivory beneath his black mustache.
I met his eye frankly. He seemed to understand.
“Not for the Star, you understand?” he nodded, still looking at me fixedly.
“Oh, no, no!” I hastened, truthfully. “I am not playing reporter now, Henri.”