“I see,” Simon said. “So you sit here waiting for people who knew him to drop in.”
“Yeah. I’ve seen two writers and the director — Groom. Now you.”
“Have you had any good reactions?” Simon asked with superb audacity.
Condor nibbled his toothpick with the corners of his mouth drawn down unhappily.
“Nope. Not yet. It hasn’t been anybody’s morning to pull boners.” He went on without any transition: “What time did you go home last night?”
“I took Miss Quest home about one o’clock.”
“When were you home?”
“We talked for a while. I didn’t notice the time, but I guess I was home in about half an hour...”
Condor’s black eyes that missed nothing were fixed on him steadily, and Simon knew almost telepathically that the night elevator operator at the Château Marmont had already been consulted. But he had had several hours to remember that that would have been an inevitable routine, eventually, anyway.
“...the first time, that is,” he continued easily. “Then I went out again. I didn’t have any liquor in the apartment, and I wanted another drink. I went to a joint on Hollywood Boulevard and had a drink at the bar, and went home at closing time.”