It was getting toward quitting time on lower Spring Street. Taxis were dawdling close to the curb, stenographers were getting an early start home, streetcars were clogging up, and traffic cops were preventing people from making perfectly legal right turns.
The Quorn Building was a narrow front, the color of dried mustard, with a large case of false teeth in the entrance. The directory held the names of painless dentists, people who teach you how to become a letter carrier, just names, and numbers without any names, Rush Madder, Attorney-at-Law, was in Room 619.
I got out of a jolting open-cage elevator, looked at a dirty spittoon on a dirty rubber mat, walked down a corridor that smelled of butts, and tried the knob below the frosted glass panel of 619. The door was locked, I knocked.
A shadow came against the glass and the door was pulled back with a squeak. I was looking at a thick-set man with a soft round chin, heavy black eyebrows, an oily complexion and a Charlie Chan mustache that made his face look fatter than it was.
He put out a couple of nicotined fingers. "Well, well, the old dog catcher himself. The eye that never forgets. Marlowe is the name, I believe?"
I stepped inside and waited for the door to squeak shut. A bare carpetless room paved in brown linoleum, a flat desk and a rolltop at right angles to it, a big green safe that looked as fireproof as a delicatessen bag, two filing cases, three chairs, a built-in closet and washbowl in the corner by the door.
"Well, well, sit down," Madder said. "Glad to see you." He fussed around behind his desk and adjusted a burst-out seat cushion, sat on it. "Nice of you to drop around. Business?"
I sat down and put a cigarette between my teeth and looked at him. I didn't say a word. I watched him start to sweat. It started up in his hair. Then he grabbed a pencil and made marks on his blotter. Then he looked at mc with a quick darting glance, down at his blotter again. He talked-to the blotter.
"Any ideas?" he asked softly.
"About what?"
He didn't look at me. "About how we could do a little business together. Say, in stones."
"Who was the wren?" I asked.
"Huh? What wren?" He still didnt look at me.
"The one that phoned me."
"Did somebody phone you?"
I reached for his telephone, which was the old-fashioned gallows type. I lifted off the receiver and started to dial the number of Police Headquarters, very slowly. I knew he would know that number about as well as he knew his hat.
He reached over and pushed the hook down. "Now, listen," he complained. "You're too fast. What you calling copper for?"
I said slowly: "They want to talk to you. On account of you know a broad that knows a man had sore feet."
"Does it have to be that way?" His collar was too tight now. He yanked at it.
"Not from my side. But if you think I'm going to sit here and let you play with my reflexes, it does."
Madder opened a flat tin of cigarettes and pushed one past his lips with a sound like somebody gutting a fish. His hand shook.
"All right," he said thickly. "All right. Don't get sore."
"Just stop trying to count clouds with me," I growled. "Talk sense. If you've' got a job for me, it's probably too dirty for me to touch. But I'll at least listen."
He nodded. He was comfortable now. He knew I was bluffing. He puffed a pale swirl of smoke and watched it float up.
"That's all right," he said evenly. "I play dumb myself once in a while. The thing is we're wise. Carol saw you go to the house and leave it again. No law came."
"Carol?"
"Carol Donovan. Friend of mine. She called you up.
It was getting toward quitting time on lower Spring Street. Taxis were dawdling close to the curb, stenographers were getting an early start home, streetcars were clogging up, and traffic cops were preventing people from making perfectly legal right turns.The Quorn Building was a narrow front, the color of dried mustard, with a large case of false teeth in the entrance. The directory held the names of painless dentists, people who teach you how to become a letter carrier, just names, and numbers without any names, Rush Madder, Attorney-at-Law, was in Room 619.I got out of a jolting open-cage elevator, looked at a dirty spittoon on a dirty rubber mat, walked down a corridor that smelled of butts, and tried the knob below the frosted glass panel of 619. The door was locked, I knocked.A shadow came against the glass and the door was pulled back with a squeak. I was looking at a thick-set man with a soft round chin, heavy black eyebrows, an oily complexion and a Charlie Chan mustache that made his face look fatter than it was.He put out a couple of nicotined fingers. "Well, well, the old dog catcher himself. The eye that never forgets. Marlowe is the name, I believe?"I stepped inside and waited for the door to squeak shut. A bare carpetless room paved in brown linoleum, a flat desk and a rolltop at right angles to it, a big green safe that looked as fireproof as a delicatessen bag, two filing cases, three chairs, a built-in closet and washbowl in the corner by the door."Well, well, sit down," Madder said. "Glad to see you." He fussed around behind his desk and adjusted a burst-out seat cushion, sat on it. "Nice of you to drop around. Business?"
I sat down and put a cigarette between my teeth and looked at him. I didn't say a word. I watched him start to sweat. It started up in his hair. Then he grabbed a pencil and made marks on his blotter. Then he looked at mc with a quick darting glance, down at his blotter again. He talked-to the blotter.
"Any ideas?" he asked softly.
"About what?"
He didn't look at me. "About how we could do a little business together. Say, in stones."
"Who was the wren?" I asked.
"Huh? What wren?" He still didnt look at me.
"The one that phoned me."
"Did somebody phone you?"
I reached for his telephone, which was the old-fashioned gallows type. I lifted off the receiver and started to dial the number of Police Headquarters, very slowly. I knew he would know that number about as well as he knew his hat.
He reached over and pushed the hook down. "Now, listen," he complained. "You're too fast. What you calling copper for?"
I said slowly: "They want to talk to you. On account of you know a broad that knows a man had sore feet."
"Does it have to be that way?" His collar was too tight now. He yanked at it.
"Not from my side. But if you think I'm going to sit here and let you play with my reflexes, it does."
Madder opened a flat tin of cigarettes and pushed one past his lips with a sound like somebody gutting a fish. His hand shook.
"All right," he said thickly. "All right. Don't get sore."
"Just stop trying to count clouds with me," I growled. "Talk sense. If you've' got a job for me, it's probably too dirty for me to touch. But I'll at least listen."
He nodded. He was comfortable now. He knew I was bluffing. He puffed a pale swirl of smoke and watched it float up.
"That's all right," he said evenly. "I play dumb myself once in a while. The thing is we're wise. Carol saw you go to the house and leave it again. No law came."
"Carol?"
"Carol Donovan. Friend of mine. She called you up.
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