She wore a dark green robe of heavy silk, black mules; her hair was gathered in a large roll at the nape of her neck.
She inclined her head sharply towards Doolin, without expression.
Doolin said: “Very happy to know you, Mrs. Sare.”
She went to one of the wide windows and jerked the drape aside a little; a broad flat beam of sunshine yellowed the darkness.
She said: “Sorry to desecrate the tomb.” Her voice was deep, husky.
Halloran poured three drinks and went back to his chair and sat down. Mrs. Sare leaned against the table, and Doolin, after a hesitant glance at her, sat down on the chair against the wall.
Halloran sipped his drink. “The strange part of it all,” he said, “is that I couldn’t identify any of the four men who came in that night if my life depended upon it — and I’m almost sure Winfield couldn’t. We’d been on a bender together for three days — and my memory for faces is bad, at best...”
He put his glass on the floor beside the chair, lighted a cigarette. “Who else did you mention, besides the Decker girl and Coleman and Winfield and myself, who might...?”
Doolin took the folded sheet of paper out of his pocket, got up and handed it to Halloran. Halloran studied it a while, said: “You missed one.” Mrs. Sare picked up the two bottles and went to Doolin, refilled his glass.
Doolin stared questioningly at Halloran, his eyebrows raised to a wide inverted V.