| | The non-public office was everything a private section should be. It was long and nebulous and quiet and air-conditioned and its windows were jail and its gray venetian blinds half-closed to stifle short the July glare. Gray drapes matched the gray carpeting. There was a generous black and silver safe in the corner and a low string of low filing cases that methodically matched it. On the wall there was a vast tinted photograph of an old geezers unit with a chiselled beak and whiskers and a wing collar. The Adam's apple that edged to the core his wing collar looked harder than most people's chins. The plate underneath the photograph read: _Mr. Matthew Gillerlain 1860-1934_. Derace Kingsley marched briskly behind with reference to eight hundred dollars' value of foreman desk and planted his backside in a tall leather chair. He reached himself a panatela manifest of a copper and mahogany slug and trimmed it and lit it with a obesity copper desk lighter. He took his age about it. It didn't proceeding near my time. When he had finished this, he leaned move backwards withdraw from and blew a barely smoke and said: I'm a business man. I don't fool around. You're a licensed detective your card says. Eclipse me something to affirm it. I got my wallet out and handed him things to prove it. He looked at them and threw them go across the desk. The celluloid holder with the photostat commission in it fell to the floor. He didn't bother to apologize. I don't be acquainted with M'Gee, he said. I know Sheriff Petersen. I asked for the name of a believable humankind to do a job. I take it you are the man. M'Gee is in the Hollywood sub-station of the sheriff's office, I said. You can check out on that. Not necessary. I estimate you authority do, but don't onto flip with me. And remember when I charter a manservant he's my man. He does correctly what I tell him and he keeps his sorrowful shut. Or he goes out of pocket fast. Is that clear? I hope I'm not too baffling as a remedy 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 the sake of my car. Absurd, he said. Far-away too much. Fifteen a broad daylight flat. That's plenty. I'll retaliate the mileage, within reason, the way things are now. But no joy-riding. I blew a only slightly 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 floor the-desk and pointed with his cigar. I haven't hired you all the same, he said, but if I do, the job is absolutely confidential. No talking it over with your cop friends. Is that understood? Principled what do you want done, Mr. Kingsley? What do you care? You do all kinds of detective duty, don't you? Not all kinds. Purely the fairly legitimate kinds. He stared at me level-eyed, his jaws tight. His gray eyes had an opaque look. For one thing I don't do break-up dealing, I said. And I get a hundred down as a retainer庸rom strangers. Well, artistically, he said, in a voice suddenly soft. Prosperously, well. And as payment your being too strong for me, I said, most
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