“Well, now, suppose you ain’t the guy that was in the hotel?”
“I’m not.”
“You’d like to get it cleaned up, wouldn’t you?”
“Not particularly. It’s so absurd I’m not even bothering about it.”
“But suppose you are the guy? Then something might happen, and you just wouldn’t remember about going back.”
“Well, you’re not going to take me back just because I happen to know the president of this corporation, are you?”
“No, but the D.A.’s office got hold of a photo of you, Lam, and showed it to the clerk at the hotel, and the hotel clerk says, ‘That’s the guy you want.’ So now what?”
Ashbury and his daughter had taken the hint. Instead of going on into their cabin, they’d got back into the car and turned it around. Ashbury rolled down the window on the driver’s side, leaned out, and asked, “Is there anything I can do for you, my friend? Are you in any trouble?”
“Nothing,” I said, “just a private matter. Good-night, and thanks for the lift.”
“You’re entirely welcome,” Ashbury said and slid the car into gear and whisked out of the auto camp.