“What!” I exclaimed. “But you can’t be Gatsby. He’s dead!”
“I assure you,” the stranger insisted, removing his false beard and mustache, “I’m alive.” I had no choice but to believe him when he smiled reassuringly — much more than reassuringly — employing that rare inimitable smile of his, with that quality of reassurance in it.
“But… then who was shot in your pool?”
“The guest who wouldn’t leave. He was using the pool, and George Wilson must have assumed he was me.”
“The poor freeloading bastard. But why didn’t you tell me?”
“We didn’t know if I could trust you, old sport,” he explained, helping Daisy into the hydroplane. “You were too close to Tom.”
“And you said you worked in the bond business,” my cousin added, thrillingly, in her low thrilling voice, “but you never went to the office. I mean ever. I mean not even once.”
“I… I don’t know where it is,” I conceded.
But it was lost in the engine noise and spray. They were gone.