Donovan controlled himself. He got off the desk and went over to his own desk and sat behind it.
“Go ahead and prove it,” he grated.
“Remember how scared Holland was when we called on him?”
Donovan snorted.
“That doesn’t mean a damn. You know as well as I do when a cop calls unexpectedly whoever answers the door lays an egg. If you can’t do better than that you’d better keep your trap shut!”
“This guy did more than lay an egg. I was watching him while you talked to him,” Duncan said quietly. “He was really scared: like a man with a guilty conscience. That doesn’t prove my case, but it did set me dunking. Doesn’t he fit the description of the guy we want? He’s tall, dark, goodlooking and around thirty. That’s tile exact description of the guy we’re after, isn’t it? But this is the clincher. Do you remember his roses? Nothing but roses in the garden, and good ones? Remember them?”
Donovan drew in a slow, exasperated breath.
“What the hell have his roses got to do with it?”
Duncan picked up the report he had written.
“Listen to this. This is the car attendant’s statement just as he made it. This is what he says: ‘The guy said something about the first rain we’ve had in ten days. I said he was right. I asked him if he grew roses. That’s about all I do grow, he tells me. Roses and weeds.’” Duncan looked across at Donovan, his eyes triumphant. “Sort of hangs together, doesn’t it?”