Goldring motioned toward the door which led to the hall.
Cutler said, “My wife now claims that she wasn’t even in New Orleans at the time. However, Mr. Gold-ring has identified a picture of her.”
Bertha started to say something, but I nudged her leg with my knee, cleared my throat, frowned at the carpet as though trying to recall something, and said, “I take it, Mr. Cutler, what you want to do is to prove definitely that it was your wife who was living in this apartment?”
“Yes.”
“And was soived with papers,” Goldring said.
I said, “I have been here only a short time, on this trip; but I’m quite well acquainted around New Orleans, and I’ve been here several times. I think I was here two years ago. Yes, I think it was exactly two years ago. I was living in an apartment across the street. Perhaps I could identify Mrs. Cutler’s picture.”
His face lit up. “That’s exactly what we want. People who can prove that she was living here at the time.”
He flashed a slender, smooth-skinned hand to the inside of his coat, emerged with a small envelope. From this he took three photographs.
I studied the photographs a long time. I wanted to be certain I’d know this woman when I saw her again.
“Well?” Cutler asked.