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datatime: 2022-09-30 18:10:36 Author:wGlQkBxF

"Better see Rush Madder. Know him?"

I got out of a jolting open-cage elevator, looked at a dirty spittoon on a dirty rubber mat, walked down a corridor that smelled of butts, and tried the knob below the frosted glass panel of 619. The door was locked, I knocked.

There was a sudden tinkling, icy-cold laugh on the wire. "On account of a guy had sore feet," the voice said.

"Huh? What wren?" He still didnt look at me.

"Did somebody phone you?"

There was a sudden tinkling, icy-cold laugh on the wire. "On account of a guy had sore feet," the voice said.

He put out a couple of nicotined fingers. "Well, well, the old dog catcher himself. The eye that never forgets. Marlowe is the name, I believe?"

I stepped inside and waited for the door to squeak shut. A bare carpetless room paved in brown linoleum, a flat desk and a rolltop at right angles to it, a big green safe that looked as fireproof as a delicatessen bag, two filing cases, three chairs, a built-in closet and washbowl in the corner by the door.

I stepped inside and waited for the door to squeak shut. A bare carpetless room paved in brown linoleum, a flat desk and a rolltop at right angles to it, a big green safe that looked as fireproof as a delicatessen bag, two filing cases, three chairs, a built-in closet and washbowl in the corner by the door.

"Who was the wren?" I asked.

He didn't look at me. "About how we could do a little business together. Say, in stones."

"Huh? What wren?" He still didnt look at me.

I sat down and put a cigarette between my teeth and looked at him. I didn't say a word. I watched him start to sweat. It started up in his hair. Then he grabbed a pencil and made marks on his blotter. Then he looked at mc with a quick darting glance, down at his blotter again. He talked-to the blotter.

A woman's voice said: "Marlowe?" It was a small, tight, cold voice. I didn't know it.

He didn't look at me. "About how we could do a little business together. Say, in stones."

I reached for his telephone, which was the old-fashioned gallows type. I lifted off the receiver and started to dial the number of Police Headquarters, very slowly. I knew he would know that number about as well as he knew his hat.

Madder opened a flat tin of cigarettes and pushed one past his lips with a sound like somebody gutting a fish. His hand shook.

I got out of a jolting open-cage elevator, looked at a dirty spittoon on a dirty rubber mat, walked down a corridor that smelled of butts, and tried the knob below the frosted glass panel of 619. The door was locked, I knocked.

"Did somebody phone you?"

"Any ideas?" he asked softly.

"Who was the wren?" I asked.

"Who was the wren?" I asked.

"Did somebody phone you?"

The Quorn Building was a narrow front, the color of dried mustard, with a large case of false teeth in the entrance. The directory held the names of painless dentists, people who teach you how to become a letter carrier, just names, and numbers without any names, Rush Madder, Attorney-at-Law, was in Room 619.

He reached over and pushed the hook down. "Now, listen," he complained. "You're too fast. What you calling copper for?"

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