Gorman took off his hat and struggled out of his coat. He looked just as impressive without the hat, and as dangerous. He had a bald spot on the top of his head, but his hair was clipped so close it didn’t matter. His pink scalp glistened through the white bristles so you scarcely noticed where the hair left off.
I tossed my hat on a hall chair.
“Come in, Mr. Jackson,” he said. “I want you to feel at home.”
I went with him into the lounge. Walking at his side made me feel like a tug bringing in an ocean liner. It was a nice room with a couple of chesterfields in red leather and three or four lounging chairs drawn up before a fireplace big enough to sit in. On the polished boards were Persian rugs that made rich pools of color, and along the wall facing the French windows was a carved sideboard on which displayed a comprehensive collection of bottles and glasses.
A thin, elegantly dressed man pulled himself out of a lounging chair by the window.
“Dominic, this is Mr. Floyd Jackson,” Gorman said; and to me he went on, “Mr. Dominic Parker, my partner.”
My attention was riveted on the bottles, but I gave him a nod to be friendly. Mr. Parker didn’t even nod. He looked me over and his lips curled superciliously and he didn’t look friendly at all.
“Oh, the detective,” he said with a sneer, and glanced at his fingernails the way women do when they’re giving you the brush-off.
I hitched myself up against one of the chesterfields and looked him over. He was tall and slender, and his honey-colored hair was taken straight back and slicked down. He had a long, narrow face, washed-out blue eyes and a soft chin that would have looked a lot better on a woman. From the wrinkles under his eyes and a little sag of flesh at his throat, I guessed he wouldn’t see forty again.
He was a natty dresser, if you care for the effeminate touch. He had on a pearl-gray flannel suit, a pale green silk shirt, a bottle-green tie and reverse calf shoes of the same color. A white carnation decorated his buttonhole and a fat, oval, gold-tipped cigarette hung from his over-red lips.
Gorman had planted himself in front of the fireplace. He stared at me with empty eyes as if he were suddenly bored with me.
“You’d like a drink?” he said, then glanced at Parker. “A drink for Mr. Jackson, don’t you think?”
“Let him get it himself,” Parker said sharply. “I’m not in the habit of waiting on servants.”
“Is that what I am?” I asked.
“You wouldn’t be here unless you were being paid, and that makes you a servant,” he told me in his supercilious voice.
“So it does.” I crossed over to the sideboard and mixed myself a drink big enough to float a canoe. “Like the little guy who was told to wash his hands.”
“It’ll be all right with me if you talk when you’re spoken to,” he said, his face tight with rage.
Gorman said, “Don’t get excited, Dominic.”
The hoarse, scratchy voice had an effect on Parker. He sat down again and frowned at his fingernails. There was a pause. I lifted my glass, waved it at Gorman and drank. The Scotch was as good as the diamond.
“Is he going to do it?” Parker asked suddenly without looking up.
“Tomorrow night,” Gorman said. “Explain it to him. I’m going to bed.” He included me in the conversation by pointing a finger the size of a banana at me. “Mr. Parker will tell you all you want to know. Good night, Mr. Jackson.”
I said good-night.
At the door, he turned to look at me again.
“Please cooperate with Mr. Parker. He has my complete confidence. He understands what has to be done and what he tells you is an order from me.”
“Sure,” I said.
We listened to Gorman’s heavy tread as he climbed the stairs. The room seemed empty without him.
“Go ahead,” I said, dropping into one of the lounging chairs. “You have my complete confidence, too.”
“We won’t have any funny stuff, Jackson.” Parker was sitting up very stiff in his chair. His fists were clenched. “You’re being paid for this job and paid well. I don’t want any impertinence from you. Understand?”
“So far I’ve only received two hundred dollars,” I said, smiling at him. “If you don’t like me the way I am, send me home. The retainer will cover the time I’ve wasted coming out here. Suit yourself.”
A tap on the door saved his dignity. He said to come in, in his cold, spiteful voice, and thrust his clenched fists into his trouser pockets.
The chauffeur came in, carrying a tray. He had changed into a white drill jacket that was a shade too large for him. On the tray was a pile of sandwiches, cut thick.
I recognized him now that he wasn’t wearing the cap. I’d seen him working at the harbor. He was a dark, sad-looking little man with a hooked nose and sad, moist eyes. I wondered what he was doing here. I remembered seeing him painting a boat along the waterfront a few days ago. He must be as new to this job as I was. As he came in, he gave a quick look and a puzzled expression jumped into his eyes.
“What’s that supposed to be?” Parker snapped, pointing to the tray.
“Mr. Gorman ordered sandwiches, sir.”
Parker stood up, took the plate and stared at the sandwiches. He lifted one with a finicky finger and thumb, frowned at it in shocked disgust.
“Who do you think can eat stuff like this?” he demanded angrily. “Can’t you get into your gutter mind sandwiches should be cut thin—thin as paper, you stupid oaf. Cut some more!” With a quick flick of his wrist he shot the contents of the plate into the little guy’s face. Bread and chicken dripped over him, a piece of chicken lodged in his hair. He stood very still and went white.
Parker stalked to the French windows, wrenched back the curtains and stared out into the night. He kept his back turned until the chauffeur had cleared up the mess.
I said, “We don’t want anything to eat, bud. You needn’t come back.”
The chauffeur went out without looking at me. His back was stiff with rage.
Parker said over his shoulder, “I’ll trouble you not to give orders to my servants.”
“If you’re going to act like an hysterical old woman I’m going to bed. If you have anything to tell me, let’s have it. Only make up your mind.”
He came away from the French windows. Rage made him look old and ugly.
“I warned Gorman you’d be difficult,” he said, trying to control his voice. “I told him to leave you alone. A cheap crook like you is no use to anyone.”
I grinned at him.
“I’ve been hired to do a job and I’m going to do it. But I’m doing it my way, and I’m not taking a lot of bull from you. That
