“Where’d you get that?” Hacklin reached for it.
“Took it away from a sizzle sister down in the Steeplechase Bar just now.” I let him have the key. “A Miss Edie Eberlein. Claimed the key was given to her by Tildy Millett.”
“Yuh? You hold her?” The D.A.’s man was interested, all right.
Auguste bustled up. “Mister Fine, I am told—”
I waved him away. “See I’m busy, Fessler? Ask Tim Piazolle about it!”
“But Mister Fine, Mister Piazolle, he—”
“I’ll talk to you down in my office, Fessler.” I ignored him, turned back to Hacklin, who was observing Auguste suspiciously. “I didn’t have any charge against this zizzer, so I couldn’t hold her. But she was with Tildy Millett’s manager, gent name of Keith Walch. Thought you might want to question him.” Auguste raised his eyebrows and his shoulders, drooped the corners of his mouth, gazed at Armand, turned on his heel, walked away with his arms bent at the elbows, palms upturned.
“Walch, huh.” Hacklin decided he had no call to inquire into my business with any waiter named Fessler. “Where’s he?”
“Over there.” I pointed. “Talking to the big bucko in the soup and fish. Big lad’s name is Yaker. He’s running this kaffee klatch. Lanerd was to speak at the dinner.” If Hacklin inferred that I’d trailed Walch up to the Crystal Room, why should I have set him straight?
“Walch might know where his skater is.” Hacklin was mollified. “But put the clamps on that waiter, hear? We sent the coat down to Broome Street for tests. If it turns out the same type blood as Herb’s, I want five minutes with that son of a bitch before I turn him in downtown.” He stalked toward Yaker and Walch.