CHAPTER FIVEI got home late that night, very late; but I was at the office at my usual time in the morning. I hadn’t slept much. I’d felt cold sober by the time I got home, but morning greeted me with a skull-cracking hangover anyway. It started in at about five o’clock, and at six-thirty I gave up any thoughts of further sleep and groaned my way out of bed.
All the endless questions on the part of Detective Lieutenant Davis and his boys hadn’t brought out much the night before—not that I knew of, at least. As far as anyone had seemed able to remember, I was the last person seen with Harry Shulman, and that had been an hour before he was found dead. It might even have been more; at that type of party it’s hard to keep track of the passage of time.
I hadn’t heard the coroner’s report, but
