“Yes.”
“I was there once. What hotel did you use?”
“The Salvation Army.”
“I was in the United States Hotel.”
Still I was stupid. He continued:
“I was there two years.”
He put on his glasses. He threw down the apple-sprig, and, looking over the glasses, he made unhappy each blossom in his own peculiar way. He continued: “I was in the United States Hotel, for making blockade whisky. I don’t make it any more.” He spat again. “I don’t even go fishin’ on Sunday unless—”
He had made up his mind that I was a customer, not a detective.
“Unless what?”
“Unless a visitor wants a mess of fish.”