Thirty minutes after I made my getaway from Lowry’s apartment, I was playing tunes on Claire Bushnell’s door-bell.
She let me in.
I said, “I’m back.”
“So I see. You certainly do pop in and out, don’t you?”
“Uh huh? Seen the late newspapers?”
She shook her head.
“Been talking with people?”
Again she shook her head, said, “I’ve been doing my nails.” I said, “Okay, Claire, I’m working for you. You’re putting me up.”
“What do you mean?”
I said, “I have some people looking for me. I don’t want to see them. I want to stay here.”