By the time I got my foot free I knew it would be useless to go after him. There were too many bolt-holes in Coral Gables to find him after such a start.
I limped to the door, swearing to myself. Something white lying in the passage caught my eye. I bent to pick it up.
It was a white felt hat.
III
The barman in Yate’s Bar looked like a retired all-in-wrestler. He was getting old now, but he still looked tough enough to quell a riot.
He served me with a slice of baked ham between rye bread and a pint of beer, and while I ate he rested hairy arms on the counter and stared at me.
At this hour of the day the bar was slack. There were not more than half a dozen men at the various tables dotted around the room: fishermen and turtle men waiting for the tide to turn. They took no notice of me, but I seemed to fascinate the barman. His battle-scarred face was heavy with thought, and every now and then he passed a hand as big as a ham over his shaven head as if to coax his brain to work.
‘Seen yuh kisser some place,’ he said, pulling at a nose that had been stamped on in the past. ‘Been in here before, ain’t yu?’
He had a high, falsetto voice that would have embarrassed a choirboy.
I said I had been in before.