“But I thought Salzer ran a kind of Nature Cure racket,” I said carefully. “Not a nut foundry.”
“So he does, but there’s a wing set aside for the mentally sick,” the blond man explained.
He walked two fingers along the edge of the night table. “It is not usually talked about.” He walked his fingers back again. “It’s so much more pleasant for relatives to say you are having a health cure than that you’re locked up in a padded cell.”
“Is that where we are?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. The walls are padded. They don’t look like it, but try punching them. It’s quite fun.” He leaned out of bed and hit the wall. His fist made no sound. “It’s rubber, I think. By the way, my name’s Duncan Hopper. You may have heard of my father: Dwight Hopper.”
As far as I could remember, Dwight Hopper was something big in the paint and distemper trade. I didn’t know he had a son.
“I’m Malloy,” I said. “Victor Malloy.”
He cocked his head on one side and regarded me fixedly.
“Who?”
“Malloy.”