I said, “Come on. This way.”
I opened the door of the cocktail lounge.
The manager was standing near the centre of the room where he could see both the door into the hotel lobby and the street door.
He came towards us, bowing, then he spotted Sellers, saw the bandaged hand, and then in a flash, recognised me.
I said, “I guess you remember me, don’t you?”
He tried to look blank.
I said, “You gave me some water with an olive in it and charged me for a cocktail.”
He said, “Where’s the evidence?”
“Down the drain. I guess.”
He said, “Don’t be a damn fool.” His eyes were fixed with fascination on the bloodstained bandage around Frank Sellers’ right hand.