When they were out of ear-shot, I said, “There’s a guy who’s been tailing me, Mike. Big, built like a boxer; squashed ear and nose, wears a fawn-coloured hat with a cord around it. Smokes a cheroot and looks tough enough to eat rusty nails. Ever seen him?”
Mike rubbed the tumbler he was holding, raised it to the light and squinted at it. Then he placed it carefully on the shelf.
“Sounds like Benny Dwan. It’s a cinch it’s Benny if his breath smells of garlic.”
“I never got that close. Who’s Benny Dwan?”
Mike picked up another glass, rinsed it under the tap and began to polish it. He could be annoyingly deliberate when answering questions. He didn’t mean anything by it; it was just his way.
“He’s a tough torpedo,” he said, squinted at the glass and polished some more. “Got a job up at Salzer’s sanatorium. He was a small-time gambler before he joined up with Salzer. Served a five-year stretch for robbery with violence back in 1938. He’s supposed to have settled down now, but I doubt that.”
“What’s he doing at Salzer’s sanatorium?” Mike shrugged.
“Odd jobs: cleans cars, does a bit of gardening, stuff like that.”
“This is important, Mike. If it is Dwan, he’s up against a murder rap.”
Mike pursed his thick lips in a soundless whistle.