“I said, “I'll bet you did, doctor, I'll bet you did.”
Dr. Fischer looked at me through his horn-rimmed glasses, an expression of surprise on his face. “What did you say?”
“It—never mind. It wasn't important.” I tried to control my racing thoughts. My blood had suddenly started hammering in my temples. But I made an effort to keep my face composed, interested. “Lime didn't make it, huh?”
“The man who was shot ... no, there wasn't a chance. I did all I—”
He stopped, frowning. “What are you doing here? Who the devil are you?”
I told him, watching his face to see if I could detect any more-than-mild reaction there. “I'm Shell Scott.”
“Oh.” It wasn't a mild, soft comment, but more like a gasp. That was all, that and a sudden widening of his eyes and mouth, quickly controlled.
He turned away from me, his face puzzled. He couldn't have known that I'd seen him in the showcase last night; but it was possible—even probable, I thought—that he knew I'd been there.
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