Duffy laid the fork down. “What the hell’s this?”
“Olga Shann, I knew her.”
Duffy picked up the fork again. “She was a swell kid,” he said. “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what’s biting you.”
Gilroy stirred restlessly, beads of sweat hung on his top lip. “It looks that way,” his voice was exceedingly hostile.
Duffy went on eating. “A little judy called Annabel English shoved that knife into her,” he said. “This is a frame-up. I’m it.”
Gilroy took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped his mouth. He stood still, looking at his bright yellow shoes.
Duffy finished the meal in silence. Then he drank some more whisky and sat back. He lit a cigarette, and forced two thin jets of smoke down his nostrils. “If you like that dame as much as I did,” he said, “I know how you feel.”
Gilroy relaxed a little and came over to the table. “Ross’s never sent me a bum yet,” he said. “I guess I was wrong.”
Duffy nodded. “Sure, that’s okay.”
“I’d like to make this a personal matter.” Gilroy studied his pinkish nails. “If you want any help, I’ve a nice little outfit.”