He came slowly into the room, put his hat on the table, asked: “May we sit down?”
“Sure.” She jerked her head towards a chair, stayed where she was.
Druse said: “You’re drunk.”
“Right.”
He smiled, sighed gently. “A commendable condition. I regret exceedingly that my stomach does not permit it.” He glanced casually about the room. In the comparative darkness of a corner, near a heavily draped window, there was a man lying on his back on the floor. His arms were stretched out and back, and his legs were bent under him in a curious broken way, and there was blood on his face.
Druse raised his thick white eyebrows, spoke without looking at Mrs. Hanan: “Is he drunk, too?”
She laughed shortly. “Uh-huh — in a different way.” She nodded towards a golf-stick on the floor near the man. “He had a little too much niblick.”
“Friend of yours?”
She said: “I rather doubt it. He came in from the fire-escape with a gun in his hand. I happened to see him before he saw me.”
“Where’s the gun?”