Elshawe had almost forgotten about Skinner. "Shoot," he said.
The police officer rattled off Samuel Skinner's vital statistics—age, sex, date and place of birth, and so on. Then: "He lived in New York until 1977. Taught science for fifteen years at a prep school there. He—"
"Wait a second," Elshawe interrupted. "When was he born? Repeat that."
"March fourth, nineteen-thirty."
"Fifty-three," Elshawe said, musingly. "Older than he looks. O.K.; go on."
"He retired in '77 and came to L.A. to live. He—"
"Retired at the age of forty-seven?" Elshawe asked incredulously.
"That's right. Not on a teacher's pension, though. He's got some kind of annuity from a New York life insurance company. Pays pretty good, too. He gets a check for two thousand dollars on the third of every month. I checked with his bank on that. Nice, huh?"
"Very nice. Go on."
"He lives comfortably. No police record. Quiet type. One servant, a Chinese, lives with him. Sort of combination of valet and secretary.