LITMIR.BIZ

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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 have known I wouldn’t quarrel with a guy who owned a diamond that size.

      “Let me tell you a story as I heard it today,” he said, “then I’ll tell you what I want you to do.” He puffed more breath at me, and went on. “I am a theatrical agent.”

      He’d have to be something like that. No one would wear a cloak-and-dagger hat and an astrakhan collar in this heat for the fun of it.

      “I look after the interests of a number of big stars and a host of little ones,” he told me. “Among the little stars is a young woman who specializes in stag party entertainments. Her name is Veda Rux. She is what is known in the profession as a stripper. She has a good act, otherwise I wouldn’t handle her. It is art in its purest form.” He eyed me over the top of the diamond and I tried to look as if I believed him, but I didn’t think I convinced him. “Last night Miss Rux performed at a dinner given to a party of businessmen by Mr. Lindsay Brett.” The little black eyes suddenly jumped from the diamond to my face. “Perhaps you have heard of him?”

      I nodded. I had made it my business to know something about everyone in San Luis Beach who had more than a five-figure income. Brett had a big place a few miles outside the city limits, the last big estate on Ocean Rise where the millionaires hide out. Ocean Rise is a twisting boulevard, lined on either side by palm trees and tropical flowering shrubs, and cut in the foothills that surround the city’s outskirts. The houses up there are set back in their own grounds and screened by twelve-foot walls. You needed money to live on that boulevard—plenty of money. Brett had money all right; as much as he could use. He had a yacht, three cars, five gardeners

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