“Well,” she said, “you sure do look a lot like the man who was in the hotel. Taken from a distance, a person might make a mistake.”
“But you’re sure?” the officer asked.
“Of course I’m sure. My gosh, I talked with the guy that was in there. He leaned up against the cigar counter and asked me questions. This man’s ears are different, and his mouth is different. He isn’t quite as heavy. I think he’s just about the same height. Where do you work, Lam?”
“I’m a private detective. This is Bertha Cool. I work for her. It’s B. Cool — Confidential Investigations.”
“Well, say,” she said, “you’d better keep out of the way of that old biddy who looked out of the room door on the fourth floor. She told me afterward that without her glasses all she could see was a blur, but she knew it was a young man, and—”
“Never mind that,” the officer interrupted.
Esther Clarde said casually, “Walter — that’s Walter Markham, the night clerk — didn’t get such a good look at him either. He was asking me only this morning about some things, trying to make sure about the color of the man’s eyes and hair. I guess I’m the only one that did get a good look at him.”
The D.A.’s investigator said, “Okay, that’s all.”
“How do I get back to where I was picked up?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Take a bus.”