cabinets, a safe, a water cooler, four chairs, and a flat-topped desk.
The man at the desk scowled and stood up. He was about the same height as Harper, but thirty pounds heavier. His brown hair was combed straight back, his eyes were pale blue and small; his teeth were so perfect they seemed false.
Harper remained motionless by the door. His dark eyes caught the blue ones of the man at the desk for a moment, then flicked to the apish-looking fellow with the flat face, bowlegs, and the long, powerful-looking arms.
“Hello, Slug,” Harper said.
“Well, I'll be—” Slug's remark was vile, but after his moment of surprise, his ugly face broke into a grin. “My pal.”
Wyman dropped back into his seat. Hate masked his face and he controlled his voice with an effort born of much experience. His tone was cold, suave. “Very neat—very. And you've got plenty of crust, plenty.”
“You said it, boss.” Slug jerked his thumb toward Harper. “He's a tough baby. And does he like it? He's the swellest private dick I ever skinned a knuckle on and—”
“I just wanted to make a short social call,” interrupted Harper. He walked to the center of the room. “I didn't expect to run into the bruiser. But at that, I'm certainly glad to see him.”
The door of the room was jerked open and the two men who had been at the downstairs table rushed in. Harper swung about, but Wyman's command stopped the charge.
“Hold it!” He came around the desk and his blue eyes held a crafty look. “Now that you're here, you might as well sing your song.” He glanced at the two men, who were glaring angrily at Harper, and jerked his head toward the door. “Blow!” he rapped. “Stick outside.”
WYMAN went back to the desk and sat down. “Grab a chair,” he said, and looked at Harper questioningly. “What's on your mind?”
Harper smiled coldly. He backed into a chair so that he faced Wyman and Slug, who stood to one side and slightly behind the desk. His hand was still in his pocket as he spoke.
“I'm looking for George Dunlap,” he began. He reached into an inside pocket. Without making mention of his connection with the district attorney he took out a card which read:
HARPER & MUNN
Private Investigators
Wyman took it, but he did not look at it. His eyes, like pale-blue disks, were on Harper. “Who's George Dunlap?” he asked.
“Slug can tell you.”
“And where do I fit?”
Harper smiled. “That's what I've been wondering about. A half-dozen rich men who've been in a jam have come to Boston. George Dunlap was one, and Slug brought him here. There might be”—Harper leaned back in his chair and stroked his mustache idly with his free hand—“some connection between these men and the body the police picked up last night; between that man and the one they picked up a month ago.
“I was wondering if maybe there wasn't some sort of racket back of it all. It would take somebody pretty big to swing it, I should think; somebody who knows his way around and has connections. That's why I came to you.”
Wyman's face was impassive, but his nostrils dilated slightly as he glanced down at Harper's card. He looked up again and smiled deliberately.
“You think of things, don't you?” He fell silent for a moment, then continued, “I never saw a private dick yet that wasn't sticking his nose in other people's business and trying to chisel out some gravy. You stuck your nose in my business and, well”—Wyman paused—“well I don't like trouble. How about a trip to Europe?”
He leaned over on the desk, rested his weight on his elbows and forearms. “I might have a little job for you to do over there. It might take you a couple months and it might be worth about five grand and expenses.”
Harper uncrossed his legs and stood up. “Sounds good,” he said. “Maybe I'll take you up on it—after I find out what happened to George Dunlap. I think he gypped me out of a grand, and I want it. I'll stop by in a few days and have a talk with you.” Harper backed toward the door.
Wyman looked at the detective a moment, then his flashing eyes flicked over his shoulder to Slug. He nodded his head toward Harper, and without raising his voice said, “All right, Slug.”
Slug grinned and lurched forward on flat feet.
Harper took one backward step, stopped and whipped out the .38. “Stay there, Slug!” he ordered. “Stay there and keep your hands where I can see 'em.” He glanced at Wyman. “That goes for you, too!”
Slug stopped and his grin turned to a scowl of anger. He took a half-step and glanced questioningly at Wyman, his hands clenching convulsively in impotent rage.
THE detective took another backward step, turned so his eyes took in the two men and the edge of the door toward which he moved.
“Drop it!”
Harper stiffened. For a second he held the gun on Slug. Both he and Wyman held their positions, but on Wyman's face, a knowing smile began to curve over his perfect teeth.
“Drop it, punk, or—”
The voice came from the wall behind Harper. There was a faint twitch of his mouth, a tightening of the lips. Then he let the gun fall from his fingers. He turned around.
