Johnny Liddell squirmed uncomfortably on the hard bench in the anteroom of the police superintendent’s office. He sat sprawled, his legs extended out in front of him, his hands balled in his jacket pockets. He was engaged in a fruitless study of the toes of his shoes when a man in a blue silk suit, wearing white shoes and a panama hat walked into the room. He walked over to where Liddell sat.
“Are you Mr. Liddell?” His voice retained traces of a Boston nasal accent.
Liddell nodded.
“Sorry if you’ve been inconvenienced,” the man in the blue suit apologized. “I’m Nat Simons of the consulate. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“I flew in by private plane from La Guaira. As it turns out, I might just as well have stayed with the ship.” Liddell got to his feet, offered the man his ha
