"Well," he said after we had left the room and descended to the lobby, "what do we do now?"
"There isn't much to do, Mr. Beemish," he had registered as Sylvester Beemish. "Except do a bit of drinking, or go back to the Cat, or shoot a little..."
"I think I've had enough of shooting for one night," he said.
"We can sit here and talk," I said. "Frankly, I'm curious about that Swede."
"He's a," he began sharply, then less irately, "what's the difference? We've been looking for him. It seems that he has something coming to him..."
"We?"... I said.
"Oh, I only represent these people," Beemish said. "There is a matter of debt... Sorensen is involved, and so I was sent to find him. It has been a long quest, I assure you?"
"Why? Where are you from?" I asked.
"From..." he hesitated, then went on, "Chicago."
"Wouldn't it be a hell of a thing if you were chasing the wrong man?"
"It would be," he said. "Though I don't think so."
"You mean you've got a picture of him, a description to go on?" I asked. "Yes."
"Well," I said. "That makes things simpler. Mind if I see it?"
He slipped his hand inside the breast pocket of his serge suit and pulled out a picture. It was of a thick-shouldered smiling man, whose bland and rather full features showed no distinguishing traits.