Phipps was scowling perplexedly.
“It looks something like him, sir; there’s a kind of resemblance. But it ain’t him.” He shook his head. “No, sir; it ain’t him. The fellow I hung a summons on was stouter than this gent, and wasn’t as tall.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yes, sir—no mistake. The guy I tagged tried to argue with me, and then he tried to slip me a fiver to forget it. I had my headlight on him full.”
Phipps was dismissed with a substantial pourboire.
“Væ misero mihi!” sighed Vance. “My worthless existence is to be prolonged. Sad. But you must try to bear it. . . . I say, Markham, what does Pop Cleaver’s brother look like?”
“That’s it,” nodded Markham. “I’ve met his brother; he’s shorter and stouter. . . . This thing is getting beyond me. I think I’ll have it out with Cleaver now.”
He started to rise, but Vance forced him back into his seat.
“Don’t be impetuous. Cultivate patience. Cleaver’s not going to do a bunk; and there are one or two prelimin’ry steps strongly indicated. Mannix and Lindquist still seduce my curiosity.”
Markham clung to his point.