Tab glanced at him suspiciously.
“I have suspected you of many weaknesses, but never of nepotism!” he said. “You told me a few weeks back that you hadn’t a relation in the world.”
“I have acquired a nephew since then,” said Carver calmly, his eyes still upon the tape, “it is a poor kind of detective who can’t discover a nephew or two. I may fall down on a murderer, but when it comes to unearthing distant relations, I am at the top of my class. You will find me somewhere in the shadows of the Central,” he added.
Tab did not see the detective again until he had left the girl in the vestibule of her hotel. Coming out into the street, Carver, true to his word, appeared from the night and took his arm.
“We will walk home. You don’t take enough exercise,” he said. “Lack of exercise is bad for the old, but it is fatal for the young.”
“You are very chatty this evening,” said Tab. “Tell me something about your little nephew.”
“I haven’t a nephew,” said the detective shamelessly, “but I am feeling kind of lonely tonight. I have had a very disappointing day, Tab, and I want to pour my woes into a sympathetic ear.”
“Faugh!” said Tab.
Carver showed no inclination to find a sympathetic listener, even when they were back at the flat, and he had a modest whiskey and soda before him.
“The truth is,” he said at last, in answer to a direct question, “I have reason to believe that I am being most carefully watched.”