They were in Demetrios’ small apartment on Seventy-sixth Street. He’d been in bed, asleep; Doyle and the lieutenant had pounded on the door for three or four minutes before they’d succeeded in waking him.
The detective lieutenant stood up, stretched, yawned extravagantly.
Someone knocked at the door.
Doyle opened it and Green came in. He nodded to Doyle and the lieutenant, jerked his head at Demetrios.
“I don’t know this gent, but I want to have a little talk with him,” he said. “Will somebody please introduce me?”
Demetrios stared at him unpleasantly. “Is this guy a dick?”
Doyle grinned, shook his head. “Huh-uh. This is St. Nick Green. He’s a nice fella. You two ought to know each other.”
Demetrios stood up angrily. “What the hell you mean coming into my house like this?” He whirled on Doyle and the lieutenant. “You, too. You got a warrant? I don’t know nothing about Costain—”
Doyle clucked: “Tch, tch, such a temper!” He smiled at Green. “Don’t mind him. We woke him up an’ he’s pouting.”
Green sat down on the arm of a chair.