“Advertising his alibi. He did go to the police station to help Yaker after the big boob got suckered in by a pair of Edie’s slick chicks. But not until after he’d returned from Brooklyn and come up here to waylay you, in case you’d had ideas about that 2010 key in Lanerd’s jacket. When I came in he was hiding behind the door; after he’d bopped me, he was afraid to hang around, case one of your neighbors heard the fracas. So he beat it back to his club, where he found an urgent squeal for help from Yaker at the precinct house. Yaker was a faker — about that amnesia — because he didn’t dare break down Walch’s alibi, scared of being disgraced back home, on the rape charge. That’s why I had to hammer at Yaker there in the Jury anteroom — if he’d stuck to that blank-memory gag, it might not have been easy to break Walch’s alibi.”
“To think I left the door open for Keith Walch to stroll calmly into my apartment!”
“Only time he didn’t have to fidoodle with a key. All he did was drop that empty envelope on the floor; idea was, you’d stoop over to pick it up — and voom! Only — I did, instead.”
“And he always appeared to be such a harmless, funny-faced little man.”
“He wouldn’t have been harmless to Tildy on the yacht, if he’d known I’d found out about Tony. He might well have erased her from his slate; I was concerned about that.”
“About that waiter too, weren’t you?”
“Auguste. Yes. I was. I like Auguste. I know a lot of people who have the idea all waiters are merely a low form of holdup men, wearing dirty dickies, delighting in the customer’s discomfort. But most Plaza Royale waiters are pretty decent people, better some days than others; just trying to get by—”
The phone rang. She answered. It was Tim. “Skipper? When you comin’ back here?”
“When I can afford one of those dandy duplexes, Timothy. First I must find me a job and some spending money.”
“Ah, Chief! Stop that guff! You been reinstated, with no loss of seniority nor nothin’! You want ’em to roll out the red carpet for you?”