tapped on the panel, the doorknob turned, the door swung open as I shifted the desk lamp.
The man who stood in the doorway looked as big as a two-ton truck. He was as thick as he was broad, and had a ball-round face, skin tight with hard, pink fat. A black hairline mustache sat below a nose like the beak of an octopus, and little black eyes peered at me over two ridges of fat, like sloes in sugar icing. He might have been fifty, not more. There was the usual breathlessness about him that goes with fat people. The crown of his wide black hat touched the top of the door, and he had to turn his gross body an inch or so to enter the office. An astrakhan collar set off his long, tight-fitting black coat and his feet were encased in immaculately polished shoes, the welts of which seemed a good inch and a half thick.
“Mr. Jackson?” His voice was hoarse and scratchy and thin. Not the kind of voice you’d expect to come out of the barrel of a body he carried around on legs that must have been as thick as young trees to support it.
I nodded.
“Mr. Floyd Jackson?”
I nodded again.
“Ah!” The exclamation came out on a little puff of breath. He moved farther into the room, pushed the door shut without turning. “My card, Mr. Jackson.” He dropped a card on the blotter. He and I and the desk filled up the office to capacity, and the air in the room began to fight for its breath.
I looked at the card without moving. It didn’t tell me anything but his name. No address, nothing to say who he was. Just two words: Cornelius Gorman.
While I looked at the card, he pulled up the office chair to the desk. It was a good strong chair, built to last, but it flinched as he lowered his bulk onto it. Now he had sat down there seemed a little more space in the room—not much, but enough to let the air circulate again.
He folded his fat hands on the top of his stick. A diamond, a shade smaller than a doorknob, flashed like a beacon from his little finger. Cornelius Gorman might be a phoney, but he had money. I could smell it, and I have a very sensitive nose when it comes to smelling money.
“I’ve been making enquiries about you, Mr. Jackson,” he said, and his small eyes searched my face. “I hear you are quite a character.”
The last time he called, Lieutenant of the Police Redfern had said more or less the same thing, only he had used a coarser expression.
I didn’t say anything, but waited, and wondered just how much he had found out about me.
“They tell me you’re smart and tricky—very, very tricky and smooth,” the fat man went on in his scratchy voice. “You have brains, they say, and you’re not over-honest. You’re a reckless character, Mr. Jackson, but you have courage and nerve and you’re tough.” He looked at me from over the top of his diamond and smiled. For no reason at all the office seemed suddenly very far from the ground and the night seemed still and empty. I found myself thinking of a cobra coiled up in a bush—a fat cobra, sleek but dangerous.
“They tell me you have been in San Luis Beach for eighteen months,” he continued breathlessly. “Before that you worked for the Central Bonding Agency, New York, as one of their detectives. A detective who works for a bonding company, they tell me, has excellent opportunities for blackmail. Perhaps that was why they asked you to resign. No accusations were made, but they found you were living at a scale far beyond the salary you were paid. That made them think, Mr. Jackson. A bonding agency can’t be too careful.”
He paused and his little eyes probed inquisitively at my face, but that didn’t get him anywhere. “You resigned,” he went on after a pause, “and soon after you became an investigator with the Hotel Protection Association. Later, one of the hotel managers complained. It seems you collected dues from certain hotels without giving the company’s receipt. But it was your word against his, and the company reluctantly decided the evidence was too flimsy to prosecute, but you were asked to resign. After that you lived on a young woman with whom you were friendly—one of the many young women, they tell me. But she soon tired of giving you money to spend on other young women, and you parted.
“Some months later you decided to set up on your own as a private investigator. You obtained a licence from the State Attorney on a forged affidavit of character, and you came to San Luis Beach because it was a wealthy town and the competition was negligible. You specialized in divorce work, and for a time you prospered. But there are also opportunities for blackmail, so I understand, even in divorce work. Someone complained to the police, and there was an investigation. But you are very tricky, Mr. Jackson, and you kept out of serious trouble. Now the police want to run you out of town. They are making things difficult for you. They have revoked your licence, and to all intents and purposes they have put you out of business—at least, that’s what they think, but you and I know better.”
I leaned forward to stub out my butt and that brought me close to the diamond. It was worth five grand, probably more. Smarter guys than Fatso Gorman have had their fingers cut off for rocks half that value. I began to get ideas about that diamond.
“Although you are still trying to operate as a private investigator, you can’t advertise, nor can you put your name on your door. The police are watching you, and if they find you are still taking commissions they’ll prosecute you. Up to now, although you have passed the word around amongst your saloon-keeper friends that you’ll accept a client without asking questions, no one has hired you, and you’re down to your last nickel. For the past five nights you have been trying to make up your mind whether to stay or quit. You have decided to quit. Am I right, Mr. Jackson?”
“Check,” I said, and eased myself farther back in my chair.
I was curious. There was something about Fatso Gorman that got me. Maybe he was a phoney; maybe he was flashing the diamond to impress me, but there was a lot more to him than a cloak-and-dagger hat and a five-grand diamond. His little black eyes warned me he was geared for quick thinking. The shape of his mouth gave him away. Turn a sheet of paper edgeways on and that’ll give you an idea of how thick his lips were. I could picture him sitting in the sun at a bullfight. He’d be happy when the horse took the horn. That was the kind of guy he was. A horse with its belly ripped open would be his idea of fun. Although he was fat, he was immensely strong, and I had a feeling if ever he got his hand around my throat, he could squeeze blood out of my ears.
“Don’t quit, Mr. Jackson,” he was saying. “I have a job for you.”
The night air, coming in through the open window on to the back of my neck, felt chilly. A moth appeared out of the darkness and fluttered aimlessly around the desk lamp. The diamond continued to make bright patterns on the ceiling. We looked at each other. There was a pause long enough for you to walk down the passage and back.
Then I said, “What kind of a job?”
“A tricky job, Mr. Jackson. It should suit you.”
I chewed that over. Well, he knew what he was buying. He had only himself to blame.
“Why pick on me?”
He touched the hairline mustache with a fat thumb.
“Because it’s that kind of a job.”
That seemed to take care of that.
“Go ahead and tell me,” I said. “I’m up for sale.”
Gorman let out a little puff of breath. Probably he thought he was going to have trouble with me, but he should
