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A Trap for Tremaine
127
spinning theories. I feel in need of solid refreshment.”
“So do I,” I said, and we went down to the street together.
“By the way,” he added, as we reached the door, “here’s that photograph you asked me for.”
I looked at it, at the coarse, bearded face with its closed eyes—the livid forehead, the full, sensual lips, the heavy, bloated nose. It was not a pleasant sight, but your police photographer does not aim at beauty—he scorns retouching and the other tricks of the trade—he strives only for truth.
“It’s hard to imagine any connection between him and Tremaine,” I remarked.
“Not half so hard as to imagine his connection with Miss Croydon,” commented Godfrey; and I agreed with him.
