“She lived here under the name of Edna Cutler.”
“What difference does that make?”
I said, “We know where she lived. We know the alias she was using. During the time she was here, there was a lot of rain in New Orleans. She’d be eating out. Particularly on the rainy days, she wouldn’t go very far. There are two or three restaurants within two blocks of the place. We’ll cover those and see what we can find out.”
Bertha glanced at her wrist watch. I got up, walked over to the door, and went out.
There was a flight of noisy stairs down to a patio, then a long passageway. I made a right-angled turn past another patio, and came out on Royal Street. I walked down to the corner and saw a sign, Bourbon House. I walked over there.
It was typical of the real French Quarter restaurant — not the tourist-trap affairs that put on a lot of glitter and charge all the traffic will bear, but a place where the prices were low and the food good. There were no frills or la-de-dah, and the place catered to regular customers.
I knew I’d struck pay dirt. Anyone who was living in that section of the Quarter would hang out there pretty regularly.
I walked over to the door that led to a bar, then turned back to the room that had the lunch counter, a couple of pinball machines, and a juke box.
“Want something?” the man behind the counter asked.
“Cup of pure coffee and some nickels for the pinball machine,” I said, tossing four bits on the counter.