“Yeah,” he said, flinching.
“You mean your wife’s giving Flaggerty a work out?” I said.
He clenched his fists; his face went yellow.
“Skip it,” I said. “We know what’s going on; so do you. The idea is to even things up, isn’t it? Well, that’s why I’m here.”
He turned away, brought out a bottle of Scotch. He set up three glasses. We all sat down round the table.
Mitchell was about forty-five. His big, simple face was fleshy and carried a lot of freckles. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, but he had that look of gloom husbands get when their wives are twotiming.
“What’s your job in the jail?” I asked, as soon as we’d settled.
“I look after floor D.”
“On what floor is Miss Wonderly?”
He blinked, looked at Davis who didn’t meet his eye, looked back at me.