I glanced around. It was a big room with nice rugs on a polished floor and comfortable chairs and so forth. No inhabitants were in sight.
“Lovely place you’ve got,” I observed. “It would look better—”
“Shut up,” Fred hissed. He was making for a door to an inner room and crooking a finger at me. “Come here and look.”
I followed him through the door. This room was smaller, with another nice rug, a couple of chairs, a dressing table, a chest of drawers, and a big fine-looking bed. I focused my gaze on the man who was lying on the bed, and saw that he checked with the description Saul had given of the item Naomi Karn had met at Santoretti’s, in spite of a couple of missing details. The blue shirt, gray four-in-hand, and gray tropical worsted coat were there on him, but below them was only white drawers, bare legs, and blue socks and garters. He was breathing like a geyser getting ready to shoot.
Fred, looking down at him proudly, whispered, “He groaned when I pulled his pants off, so I quit.”
I nodded. “He don’t look very dignified. Have you named him yet?”
“Yeah, but it’s a mix-up. It says Dawson downstairs, and this is where he said to bring him, and he had keys, but that’s not his name. His name’s Eugene Davis, and he’s in a law firm; Dunwoodie, Prescott & Davis, 40 Broadway.”
Chapter 7
I gave Fred an eye. The comic aspect of things retreated into the wings.
“What makes you think so?” I demanded.