The waiter served Hanan’s whiskey sour, set a small bottle of Perrier and a small glass on the table in front of Druse.
Druse poured the water into the glass slowly. “So what?”
Hanan tasted his drink. He said: “This is not a matter for the police, Mister Druse. I understand that you interest yourself in things of this nature, so I took the liberty of calling you and making this appointment. Is that right?” He was nervous, obviously ill at ease.
Druse shrugged. “What nature? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sorry — I guess I’m a little upset.” Hanan smiled.
“What I mean is that I can rely on your discretion?”
Druse frowned. “I think so,” he said slowly. He drank half of the Perrier, squinted down at the glass as if it tasted very badly.
Hanan smiled vacantly. “You do not know Mrs. Hanan?”
Druse shook his head slowly, turned his glass around and around on the table.
“We have been living apart for several years,” Hanan went on. “We are still very fond of one another, we are very good friends, but we do not get along — together. Do you understand?”