“I know.” Keats went over to the blanket and lifted one corner. Then he dropped the blanket and took out a cigaret and lit it. “We’ll have to wait.” He inhaled.
“Sure, yes, Lieutenant.” Priam fumbled with something. The upper half of his bed rose, the lower sank, to form the chair. He groped. “A drink,” he said. “You join me? Celebration.” He guffawed. “Besides, I’m a little wobbly.”
Ellery was wandering around, pulling at an ear, rubbing the back of his neck. There was a ridge between his eyes.
Keats kept smoking and watching him.
“I’ve got to hand it to him,” Priam was saying, busy with a bottle and a glass. “Alfred Wallace... Must have had his nose fixed. I never recognized him. Smooth, smooth operator. Gets right on the inside. Laughing up his sleeve all the time! But who’s laughing now? Here’s to him.” He raised the glass, grinning, but the wild animal was still in his eyes. He tossed the whisky off. When he set the glass down, his hand was no longer shaking. “But there he is, and here I am, and it’s all over.” His head came down, and he was silent.
“Mr. Priam,” said Ellery.
Priam did not reply.
“Mr. Priam?”
“Hey?” Priam looked up.
“There’s one point that still bothers me. Now that it’s over, would you straighten me out on it?”