I said, “Okay, we’re going to order a drink, and I want this one to be better than the others.”
I moved over to a booth. The four of us sat down, Sellers with obvious reluctance.
The manager melted away.
I said, in an undertone, “Follow him, Claire, quick! If he goes to a telephone, try and watch him and see what number he calls.”
Claire Bushnell slid out from behind the table, and, looking demure as befits a modest young woman who is searching for a rest-room, started tagging along behind the manager.
“You think he’s in on it?” Sellers asked skeptically.
I said, “Something happened in this vicinity when I was trying to follow Tom Durham. What’s more, Dover Fulton and Minerva Carlton were in here having drinks just before they went to the KOZY DELL SLUMBER COURT.”
“That’s a damn slender thread on which to tie a conclusion,” Sellers said angrily.
I said, “It’s a thread that was stout enough to get you your car back.”
There wasn’t any answer he could make to that.