“A man about six feet,” I said, “something over two hundred pounds, beefy, but not fat, dark hair, deep-set, grey eyes, a man in the late thirties or early forties, a mole on his cheek, and a fist like a pile driver.”
Dr. Alftmont shook his head and said, “I know no one of that description.” But he avoided my eyes as he said it.
“He waited for me in my room in the hotel,” I said. “He knew all about me. He’d appropriated the agency car, driven it around to the back of the hotel.”
“What did he want?”
“He wanted me to leave town.”
“What did you do?”
“Made the mistake of trying to yell for the cops.”
“What happened?”
“When I regained consciousness, I’d been bundled out of town.”
The corners of his lips quivered. His chin moved twice before he said anything. “There m-m-must have been some mistake,” he said.