CHAPTER 7URGENT INVITATION
FOR a minute I just stood looking at Tommy Twotoes. Finally I said something original.
I said, “I don’t know what you mean.”
There wasn’t even a flicker in the little eye-slits of his doughy face. “You know quite well what I mean, Terence,” he said. “I never forget a face. I was on the sixth floor of the Sheridan Towers Hotel on the afternoon of the twentieth. I saw you. But the clothes you were wearing distracted me. Then I remembered—the man down here on Skid Row called Soldier, the one who had spoken his mind to me. I wanted to see you, to hear your story. Again I proffer my hospitality. Will you accept it, or shall I dispatch one of the boys for the police who might be interested in meeting George Spelvin, whose fingerprints have been identified as those o
