Bill grinned. He recognized K., and, mopping dry a part of the porch, shoved a chair on it.
“Sit down. Well, how's the man who got his last night? Dead?”
“No.”
“County detectives were here bright and early. After the lady's husband. I guess we lose our license over this.”
“What does Schwitter say?”
“Oh, him!” Bill's tone was full of disgust. “He hopes we do. He hates the place. Only man I ever knew that hated money. That's what this house is—money.”
“Bill, did you see the man who fired that shot last night?”
A sort of haze came over Bill's face, as if he had dropped a curtain before his eyes. But his reply came promptly:
“Surest thing in the world. Close to him as you are to me. Dark man, about thirty, small mustache—”
“Bill, you're lying, and I know it. Where is he?”