CHAPTER 4He didn’t let me linger in doubt. Without removing the cigar he took an I. D card from his inside pocket and showed it to me. His name was Saunders, Clay Saunders. He was a sergeant of detectives; he was thirty-seven years old and the photograph on the I. D was a good likeness. It emphasized the square fullness of his lower jaw, a feature that made him look narrower in the skull than he actually was.
“All right,” I said.
He put the I. D away.
“And who are you?” he asked.
I told him. He didn’t say anything, but waited, and I took out my license and showed it to him. He nodded.
“I’ve heard of you,” he said.
He came on into the room, puffed his cigar alight and glanced here and there.
“Lady died here yesterday,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Lorrie King.”
“That’s my understandin
