I took out my wallet and extracted a buck and laid it on the table. A swift glance showed me that Helen Frost looked pale, Thelma Mitchell looked interested, and Llewellyn looked set for murder. Wolfe had left. I did likewise, and joined him outside where he was pushing the button for the elevator.
I said, “That beer couldn’t have been more than two bits a throw, seventy-five cents for three.”
He nodded. “Put the difference on his bill.”
Downstairs we marched through the activity without halting. McNair was over at one side talking with a dark medium-sized woman with a straight back and a proud mouth, and I let my head turn for a second look, surmising it was Helen Frost’s mother. A goddess I hadn’t seen before was parading in a brown topcoat in front of a horsey jane with a dog, and three or four other people were scattered around. Just before we got to the street door it opened and a man entered, a big broad guy with a scar on his cheek. I knew all about that scar. I tossed him a nod.
“Hi, Purley.”
He stopped and stared, not at me, at Wolfe. “In the name of God! Did you shoot him out of a cannon?”
I grinned and went on.
On the way home I made attempts at friendly conversation over my shoulder, but without success. I tried:
“Those models are pretty creatures. Huh?”
No sale. I tried: