The only one drinking seriously was Mike Gunner-son; Charley Quirt held a glass in his hands but he was not touching it. Sharon and Steve were sipping soft drinks, Ross had foregone his usual beer, and Billy Dupaul had also refused anything. “I never had the habit, and you sure don’t pick it up at Attica,” he had said. He sat, his face a mask, his feelings under tight control, staring at Charley Quirt as if seeing the man for the first time. His face was pale; his hands were tightly clasped in his lap. Ross attempted to cheer things up. “We ought to call this case The Handy Death,” he said conversationally. “If Raymond Neeley had lived, Billy, you would have remained in prison. The fact that he died as a result of your having shot him was what led to your release. An odd case, helped immeasurably by Louis G. Gorman, long may he wave.” He glanced at Charley Quirt. “And not particularly helped by your mystery.” “I know what you mean.
