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datatime: 2022-10-04 20:45:23 Author:xyVuczIh

The phone clicked. I put my end of it aside, struck a match and stared at the wall until the flame burned my fingers.

"Better see Rush Madder. Know him?"

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

"Who was the wren?" I asked.

A shadow came against the glass and the door was pulled back with a squeak. I was looking at a thick-set man with a soft round chin, heavy black eyebrows, an oily complexion and a Charlie Chan mustache that made his face look fatter than it was.

The phone clicked. I put my end of it aside, struck a match and stared at the wall until the flame burned my fingers.

"The one that phoned me."

"Does it have to be that way?" His collar was too tight now. He yanked at it.

I said slowly: "They want to talk to you. On account of you know a broad that knows a man had sore feet."

Rush Madder was a shyster in the Quorn Building. An ambulance chaser, a small-time fixer, an alibi builder-upper, anything that smelled a little and paid a little more. I hadn't heard of him in connection with any big operations like burning people's feet.

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

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

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.

Rush Madder was a shyster in the Quorn Building. An ambulance chaser, a small-time fixer, an alibi builder-upper, anything that smelled a little and paid a little more. I hadn't heard of him in connection with any big operations like burning people's feet.

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.

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?"

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.

"Not from my side. But if you think I'm going to sit here and let you play with my reflexes, it does."

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.

"Who was the wren?" I asked.

"Who was the wren?" I asked.

"No," I lied. "Why should I see him?"

A shadow came against the glass and the door was pulled back with a squeak. I was looking at a thick-set man with a soft round chin, heavy black eyebrows, an oily complexion and a Charlie Chan mustache that made his face look fatter than it was.

"Did somebody phone you?"

"Better see Rush Madder. Know him?"

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