“I’m sorry, we can’t help you.”
I said, “You might also try this one. A man about thirty-five, about five feet eleven, long, straight nose, good features, dark hair, grey eyes, weight a hundred and ninety-five, wears grey double-breasted suit, smokes cigarettes through a long carved ivory cigarette holder. Know him?”
From the kitchenette, I heard the clatter of crockery. “What was that?” the blonde asked.
“A cup, my dear. I’m sorry.”
“Bob, you’ve got the jitters. You drank too much last night.”
There was the sound of running water.
“Now what are you doing?” she asked.
“Washing a cup. I broke the last clean one.”
She turned to me and smiled wearily.
I said, “This man could go by the name of Tom.”