“I think the ‘Lucille’ may be okay,” I said. “The ‘Hart’ may or may not have been made up.”
He said, “Wait a minute. I want to think.”
He took another pull at the cigarette, then pinched it out and dropped the stub into an ash-tray that was just about full. I noticed other cigarette stubs in there with lipstick smears on them.
“Lucille,” he said almost musingly.
He waited a while, his eyes on the faded carpet, then he tilted his head back so that he could look down his nose at me through half-closed lids. “What’s it to you?” he asked.
“I want to find her.”
“So I gathered,” he said dryly. “Professional or personal?”
“You might say it’s a little of both.”
“Tell me about the personal angle.”
“She took me to a motor court, then stood me up and left me holding the sack.”