“I don’t think so. I think this is the time when it needs your fine Italian hand.”
“Sometimes my hand gets pretty rough,” she said.
“Okay, come on.”
She said, “Donald, what’s got into you? What’s all the rush about? Why are you so nervous?”
“I’ve been thinking,” I said.
“Well,” she admitted grudgingly, “that’s one thing you can do.” She got up, crossed over to the closet which held the washstand, and started powdering her face and putting on lipstick. I paced the floor impatiently, looking at my watch from time to time. “Did Dr. Alftmont say when he’d arrived in town or when he was going back?” I asked.
“He asked us particularly not to refer to him as Dr. Alftmont, Donald. He said in our office conversation and in memos we must refer to him as Mr. Smith.”
“All right. Did he say when he’d come in or when he was going back?”
“No.”
“Was he wearing a double-breasted, grey suit?”