He remembers me too,
and when he finds I'm an old friend of Whitey Weeks he opens up.
"Yes, I've seen that party around more or less," says he. "Creighton,
eh? Well, he's no guest. Yes, I'm sure he don't room here. He just
blew through the north exit. What's his line?"
"Antiques, he says," says I.
"Oh, sure!" says Squint. "Now I have him located. He's a free-lunch
hitter; I remember one of the barkeeps grouching about him. But say,
if you're after full details you ought to have a talk with Colonel
Brassle. He knows him. And the Colonel ought to be strolling in from
the Army and Navy Club soon. Want to wait?"
"Long as I've started this thing, I might as well stay with it," says I.
Yep, I waits for the Colonel. Some enthusiastic describer, Colonel
Brassle is, when he gets going. It was near 1 A.M. when I finally
tears myself away; but I'm loaded up with enough facts about Creighton
to fill a book. And few of 'em was what you might call complimentary
to Clyde. For one thing, his dear Alicia hadn't found him as inspirin'
as he had her. Anyway, she'd complained a lot about his hang-over
disposition, and finally quit him for good five or six years before she
passed on. Also, Clyde was no plute. He was existin' chiefly on bluff
at present, and that studio of his was a rear loft over a
delivery-truck garage down off Sixth Avenue.
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