The woman who ran the place looked us over.
“Ever seen him before?” Sellers asked.
I met her eyes.
“That’s the one,” she said.
“What one?”
“The one I was telling you about, the one who came here in Fulton’s car. He’s the one that wrote ‘Dover Fulton, 6285 Orange Avenue, San Robles.’ That’s his handwriting.”
“What about the girl with him?”
She sniffed, and said, “Some little tramp. And if you ask me, this man is grass green. My God, he came here with a stall about this dame being sick and needing a rest-room. I told him we didn’t have rest-rooms, that we had cabins and that the cabins had baths and toilets, and asked him if he wanted one. And what do you suppose he said?”
Sergeant Sellers was regarding me speculatively. “What the hell did he say?”
“Said he’d have to go and ask her.”