“Who?” Keats blinked.
“The owner of the dead dog, the one you have reason to believe was poisoned before it was left on Hill’s doorstep. What was the owner’s name? I’ve forgotten it.”
“Henderson. Clybourn Avenue, in Toluca Lake.”
“I’ll have to see him as soon as I can. You going home?”
“But why―”
“You go on and get a couple of hours’ sleep. Are you going to be at the station later this morning?”
“Yeah. But what―?”
But Ellery was walking out of Roger Priam’s library with stiff short steps, a man in a dream.
Keats stared after him.
When he heard Ellery’s Kaiser drive away, he put Ellery’s pack of cigarets in his pocket and picked up the remains of the burned book.