I shook my head. "His mother died—not by what's called suicide, but by the psychological means that amounted to the same thing. He's a case of a dame-starved kid growing up with too much emphasis on dames and too little knowledge about what they're really like."
The cop gazed at me with a different speculation. "Tough for you."
"I can stand it. I like him. It makes me angry. And it's—embarrassing."
"I'll say."
Time passed.
"They ought to have a gadget!" I talked to pass more time. "Something that they could shoot at a man on such a spot. A light, large net discharged by a Very pistol—maybe—that went too fast to duck and tangled you all up."
The cop wiggled his chin affirmatively. "The number of good, practical ideas buried in Headquarters runs to thousands."
Captain Black came in. "No dice."
Then Dave Berne arrived.
His eyes were the same faithful blue, but unnaturally vivid. He patted my back and shook hands with Black, whom he knew. He stood in the room a moment, peeling off a light-weight jacket and looking at the yellow roses. Then he went over and leaned out the window.