sad smile and I gave it back to her in the form, of an obscene leer. I ate another cigarette and more time staggered by. I was getting to be very fond of the Gillerlain Company.
Ten minutes later the same door opened again and the big shot came out with his hat on and sneered that he was going to get a haircut. He started off across the Chinese rug in a swinging athletic stride, made about half the distance to the door and then did a sharp cutback and came over to Where I was sitting.
“You want to see me?” he barked.
He was about six feet two and not much of it soft. His eyes were stone gray with flecks of cold light in them. He filled a large size in smooth gray flannel with a narrow chalk stripe, and filled it elegantly. His manner said he was very tough to get along with.
I stood up. “If you’re Mr. Derace Kingsley.”
“Who the hell did you think I was?”
I let him have that trick and gave him my other card, the one with the business on it. He clamped it in his paw and scowled down at it.
“Who’s M’Gee?” he snapped.
“He’s just a fellow I know.”
“I’m fascinated,” he said, glancing back at Miss Fromsett. She liked it. She liked it very much. “Anything else you would care to let drop about him?”
“Well, they call him Violets M’Gee,” I said. “On account of he chews little throat pastilles that smell of violets. He’s a big man with soft silvery hair and a cute little mouth made to kiss babies with. When last seen he was wearing a neat blue suit, wide-toed brown shoes, gray homburg hat, and he was smoking opium in a short briar pipe.”
“I don’t like your manner,” Kingsley said in a voice you could have cracked a Brazil nut on.
“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m not selling it.”
He reared back as if I had hung a week-old mackerel under his nose. After a moment he turned his back on me and said over his shoulder: “I’ll give you exactly three minutes. God knows why.”
He burned the carpet back past Miss Fromsett’s desk to his door, yanked it open and let it swing to in my face. Miss Fromsett liked that too, but I thought there was a little sly laughter behind her eyes now.
2
The private office was everything a private office should be. It was long and dim and quiet and air-conditioned and its windows were shut and its gray venetian blinds half-closed to keep out the July glare. Gray drapes matched the gray carpeting. There was a large black and silver safe in the corner and a low row of low filing cases that exactly matched it. On the wall there was a huge tinted photograph of an elderly party with a chiseled beak and whiskers and a wing collar. The Adam’s apple that edged through his wing collar looked harder than most people’s chins. The plate underneath the photograph read:
Derace Kingsley marched briskly behind about eight hundred dollars worth of executive desk and planted his backside in a tall leather chair. He reached himself a panatela out of a copper and mahogany box and trimmed it and lit it with a fat copper desk lighter. He took his time about it. It didn’t matter about my time. When he had finished this, he leaned back and blew a little smoke and said: “I’m a business man. I don’t fool around. You’re a licensed detective your card says. Show me something to prove it.”
I got my wallet out and handed him things to prove it. He looked at them and threw them back across the desk. The celluloid holder with the photostat license in it fell to the floor. He didn’t bother to apologize.
“I don’t know M’Gee,” he said. “I know Sheriff Petersen. I asked for the name of a reliable man to do a job. I suppose you are the man.”
“M’Gee is in the Hollywood sub-station of the sheriff’s office,” I said. “You can check on that.”
“Not necessary. I guess you might do, but don’t get flip with me. And remember when I hire a man he’s my man. He does exactly what I tell him and he keeps his mouth shut. Or he goes out fast. Is that clear? I hope I’m not too tough for you.”
“Why not leave that an open question?” I said.
He frowned. He said sharply: “What do you charge?”
“Twenty-five a day and expenses. Eight cents a mile for my car.”
“Absurd,” he said. “Far too much. Fifteen a day flat. That’s plenty. I’ll pay the mileage, within reason, the way things are now. But no joy-riding.”
I blew a little gray cloud of cigarette smoke and fanned it with my hand. I said nothing. He seemed a little surprised that I said nothing.
He leaned over the-desk and pointed with his cigar. “I haven’t hired you yet,” he said, “but if I do, the job is absolutely confidential. No talking it over with your cop friends. Is that understood?”
“Just what do you want done, Mr. Kingsley?”
“What do you care? You do all kinds of detective work, don’t you?”
“Not all kinds. Only the fairly honest kinds.”
He stared at me level-eyed, his jaws tight. His gray eyes had an opaque look.
“For one thing I don’t do divorce business,” I said. “And I get a hundred down as a retainer—from strangers.”
“Well, well,” he said, in a voice suddenly soft. “Well, well.”
“And as for your being too tough for me,” I said, “most of the clients start out either by weeping down my shirt or bawling me out to show who’s boss. But usually they end up very reasonable—if they’re still alive.”
