“His name is Devaud,” insisted Rio. “Martin Devaud. He’s a sort of young guy.”
“Devaud?” Roberts’ eyes were round. “Have I heard the name? A thin, crippled fellow?”
“No.”
Roberts took a pencil and filled in a blank card.
“We aren’t permitted to give information concerning these men, but if such a person should ever come in, I’ll give him your name.”
“My name’s Rio.”
“What shall I tell him you wanted—if I see him?”
Rio stuck his thumb against his chin.
“You don’t need to tell him nothin’.” He leaned on the desk.