He looked up (was his color a shade more rubicund?) and said, "Hullo, there. I'm glad you came by. I'm leaving tonight."
The voice was level. Perhaps too level. Kintyre closed the door and said: "I thought you were going to come and see me in my office."
"Well, I was," said Owens. "I wanted to get my packing out of the way first." He felt in the suitcase and brought out a pocket flask. "Care for a drop?"
"No," said Kintyre.
He leaned in the doorway, watching. But he saw only that Owens stood neatly attired, calm of face, steady of hands, putting up a linen suit.
"What brings you here?" asked the writer.
Kintyre countered: "Isn't this a rather sudden decision to leave?"
"Mm, yes. I made the reservation just a few minutes ago. But I haven't much reason to stay here any longer, have I?"
"The Lombardi murder."
Owens shook his head. "Poor chap. But what can I do about it? I assure you, the police didn't ask me to stay in town."