He squinted. “Never mind his suit. What’d he look like?”
“Auguste couldn’t describe him. Auguste can’t see a fly on the end of his nose, without glasses. Our waiters aren’t allowed to wear glasses.”
Veins in Hacklin’s forehead stood out like small purplish worms; his eyes had that old hard-boiled-egg look once more. “If he couldn’t see any better’n that, how’d he know this guy was in Miss Millett’s rooms?”
“Guy bumped into him. Coming out of the bedroom where we found your partner. Grabbed Auguste’s sleeve.”
“Yeah? An’ he just can’t tell what the fella looked like, huh? Wait’ll I get this Fessler alone for a few minutes. He’ll begin to remember things.”
“He would. He’d even make up things to remember.” I’ve known it to happen often enough. “If you wouldn’t put the arm on him, I’d help you to get hold of him so you could question him here.”
“Where is he?”
“No arrest?”
“Look.” His jaw jutted out like a comic-book detective’s. “If he confesses, I can’t—”
“If you’re still sticking to the idea he was hired by some gambling syndicate to put the dot on Roffis, you couldn’t be wronger.”