I was alone when I came to the surface. I sat up slowly and felt my jaw. It was swollen, but I was relieved it wasn’t broken.
I got to my feet and wandered over to the whisky bottle. The liquor did me a lot of good and a second shot did even better. I wasn’t mad at Bogle. From his point of view he had done the right thing. I’d have done the same if I’d been in his place.
I went into the bathroom and bathed my face. It looked a little better by the time I was through, and as I was leaving the bathroom I heard the wail of police sirens.
Sam was standing in the hall. His face was bruised and puffy, but he looked almost handsome beside me.
We looked at each other. Then he said a little shamefaced, “I’m sorry, Bud, but you had to stick your neck out. My beef ain’t with you, but I’m not letting that dame get away with this. I can’t help it if you’re soft on her, can I?”
I said, “No, but you’re making an awful mistake, Sam,” and went into the sitting room. Then the law walked in. There was Clancy of the Homicide Bureau, who I knew quite well, and a couple of patrolmen and a cameraman.
I heard a lot of talking going on outside in the hall, but I was past caring what happened. I had to wait to see how things shaped, then try to get Myra out of the jam.
I heard Clancy go upstairs to look at Doc. They were up there some time, then Clancy came down with Bogle, leaving the others to work on finger-prints and stuff like that in Doc’s room.
Clancy was a little fat guy, with eyebrows like overgrown shrubs and a blue-black jowl which made him look tough. He usually dwelt behind a dead cigar and modelled his inanners along motion picture lines. He wasn’t the brightest star of the Homicide Bureau, and I was sorry he was handling the case.
He came in and stood over me. “Well, well,” he said, surprised, “Ross Millan! What are you doing here?”