He climbed laboriously out of the chair. “Must have a drink,” he growled. “Hetty’s a swell cook, and a good woman, but she just doesn’t understand that guys need a drink.” He opened a cupboard and produced a black unlabelled bottle. He found two glasses and poured whisky into them. He gave me a glass and went back to the chair with the other. “Clot in your bloodstream,” he said, waving the glass at me.
We drank.
“How long do you reckon to keep up this shindig?” he asked.
“Until I’ve found Herrick’s killer.”
“So you didn’t kill him?”
“No. I was the fall guy. It was a political killing.”
He took another drink, rolled the liquor round in his mouth before swallowing it. “Killeano?”
“What do you think?”
“Well, yes; it’d suit him to knock Herrick off.”
“Your rag interested one way or the other?”