“Well, well, well!” he murmured. “The never-sleeping bloodhound. How did you know I was here?”
“I figured you’d be with somebody,” Condor said rather cryptically. “I just tried one or two places, and this was it. Do you want to talk here or shall we go outside?”
“Let’s go outside.”
They went out into the dark that had fallen outside, and sauntered over the lawn towards the sidewalk where Condor’s police car was parked. A street lamp shone down on it like a dull white moon among the palms. Simon saw the driver stick his head out and watch them.
“You get on pretty well with her?” Condor asked, with matter-of-fact impersonality.
“Very well.”
“Was she helping you work out another alibi for when Flane was shot?”
Simon slowed his step, with his hands in his pockets, and said quite amiably, “If you’re serious about that, I’d like an official warning and we’ll talk it over with the District Attorney and my own lawyer. Otherwise you’d better go easy with those cracks. I can’t let you go on like this indefinitely. Now do I really need an alibi or what?”
“I’m afraid not,” Condor admitted lugubriously. He sighed. “This time you seem to be in the clear. Do you know anything about it?”
“Only what I heard on the radio.”