American Gun Mystery
“The pouches beneath his eyes were more batrachian than ever; his pink cheeks were pinker and his expression more wooden, if that were possible, than before.
“Come in, Mr. Hunter,” said the Inspector shortly. “Take a chair.”
The pouches sank, and keen pupils glittered for an instant. “No, thank you,” said Hunter. “I’ll stand.”
“Suit yourself. How well did you know Horne?”
“Ah,” said Hunter. “The inquisition. My dear Inspector, aren’t you being a little absurd?”
“What—Say!”
The night-club owner waved a manicured hand. “It’s apparent that you consider me a potential suspect for the murder of that—uh—dashing old gentleman who came a cropper out there. It’s too silly, you know.”
“Rats. Come out of it, Hunter. That tack won’t get you anywhere,” said the Inspector sharply. “Now please answer my questions, and don’t waste our time—we’ve a big job on our hands and I can’t stand here arguing with you. Well, well?”
Hunter shrugged.
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