Then the Hollywood detective reached for his hat, jammed it down over his ears, and stamped out.
The front door made a loud, derisive noise.
And Keats’s car roared down the hill as if the devil were after it.
Ellery sighed. He began to refill his pipe.
“Damn you, Adam. What am I going to do with you?”
The man reached for another of Ellery’s cigarets.
Smiling his calm, secretive, slightly annoying smile, he said, “You can call me Alfred.”