He placed his forearm flat’ on the desk, raised the wrist, and slapped the tips of his fingers with an up-and-down drumming motion against the scarred desk top. At length, he said, “The New Orleans police are making inquiries.”
“There may be a New Orleans angle on it.”
“What?”
I looked him straight in the eye, said with wide-eyed candor, “A girl by the name of Roberta Fenn was riding in the car with Craig when he was killed. She’s been mixed up in another murder case in New Orleans. Police aren’t certain what happened, whether she was a victim or whether she pulled the trigger, or whether she’s just got frightened and taken a powder.”
“Two murders in five years is altogether too many murders for a nice young girl.”
“So it would seem.”
“What’s your angle on the case?”
“Just investigating.”
“For whom?”
“A lawyer,” I said, “trying to close up an estate.”