He stood aside.
‘Would you wait in the lounge, sir?’
I went into the room where Souki had been shot. The Mexican rug had been cleaned. There were no bodies lying about this evening to welcome me; no untouched whisky and soda, no cigarette stub to spoil the repaired surface of the table.
‘If you could sneak me a double Scotch with a lot of ice in it, I’d appreciate it.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
He drifted across the room to the sideboard on which stood a bottle of Haig and Haig, glasses, a bucket of ice and White-rock.
I listened attentively as he moved, but I couldn’t hear his bones creak. I was surprised. He looked old enough for them to squeak. But, old as he was, he was no slouch when it came to mixing a drink. He handed me one strong enough to tip over a pony and trap.
‘If you would care to look at some periodicals while you wait, sir, I will get some for you.’
I lowered myself into an easy chair that accepted me as if it was doing me a favour, stretched out my legs and balanced my drink carefully on the arm of the chair.
‘You think there’ll be a long wait?’ I asked.