“And he was going north.”
“Yep.” He gestured. “That direction.”
“You saw him. Did he see you?”
“Yes. He lifted his crop to me and I waved back. We often did that.”
“But he didn’t stop or gaze straight at you.”
“He didn’t gaze straight or crooked. He was out for a ride. Listen, brother.” The mounted man’s tone indicated that he had decided to humor me and get it over. “I’ve been through all this with the Homicide boys. If you’re asking was it Keyes, it was. It was his horse. It was his bright yellow breeches, the only ones that color around, and his blue jacket and his black derby. It was the way he sat, with his shoulders hunched and his stirrups too long. It was Keyes.”
“Good. May I pat your horse?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t. It would suit me fine if the occasion arose someday for me to pat you. When I’m dining with the inspector this evening I’ll put in a word for you, not saying what kind.”
I hoofed it out of the park and along Sixty-sixth Street to Broadway, found a drugstore and a phone booth, wriggled onto the stool, and dialed my favorite number. It was Orrie Cather’s voice that answered. So, I remarked to myself, he’s still there, probably sitting at my desk; Wolfe’s instructions for him must be awful complicated. I asked for Wolfe and got him.