You see
nobody told him about the six-pointed star on the box he was shipped in—he had to find out for himself.
And he wants to be sure, when he checks out, that he kept it bright while he had the use of it.
Dave came in.
"By God," he said, "Wylie! The old, articulate cryptogram in person, nude as a saint's stool!" It might have been a bracing autumn forenoon: "I'm glad to see you! I was saying to a friend only the other night—a jerk named Staunton—Staunton, the town's not the same—Wylie's not here. The old termite has moved to the country—turned himself out to pasture! And Florida in the winter! The son-of-a-bitch is chasing the analema! Where's the patient?"
I pointed.
Dave took a look and came back.
"Shall we wake him up? I can take him to the office and get some of my minions looking for his wench. Private dicks, too. They won't find her. They couldn't find a luminous memorandum in a two-drawer filing cabinet. But it might wear him down a little."
"Let him sleep, for now."
Dave sat down. "This is swell! Send for a barrel of iced tea, will you—with a clear gin on the side? I had a hard night last night. A bunch of the super-big-shots came in on the Super-Chief and the Super-Century last night. Things in Hollywood are so bad that two of them stayed sober the whole damned evening."