The man’s voice called down the corridor, “Does that fix it?”
I shouted, “Okay, that fixes it.”
The man who lay on the floor was sprawled out awkwardly. His soft felt hat lay some six feet beyond the crumpled figure. The arms were outflung, and the skirts of the overcoat had doubled up when he fell so that they were up beneath his head.
The man was Marco Cutler.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I sat in Rondler’s office, a bright light illuminating my features. A court stenographer was taking down every word I said. A couple of detectives sat watching me with the intense concentration which one sees on the faces of men around a poker table.
Edna Cutler and Roberta Fenn occupied chairs on one side of the room. Bertha Cool sat opposite them on the other side, and Emory Hale was seated beside Bertha.
Rondler said, “Apparently, Lam, you located Roberta Fenn in Shreveport and brought her with you to Los Angeles.”
“Any objection?” I asked.
“The New Orleans police were looking for her.”