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where does gap make the most profits

datatime: 2022-09-25 16:18:01 Author:UxzKvBoB

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.

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.

"Who was the wren?" I asked.

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.

"Well, well, sit down," Madder said. "Glad to see you." He fussed around behind his desk and adjusted a burst-out seat cushion, sat on it. "Nice of you to drop around. Business?"

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

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.

"Any ideas?" he asked softly.

"The one that phoned me."

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

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

"Who was the wren?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

"Better see Rush Madder. Know him?"

"Did somebody phone you?"

"Any ideas?" he asked softly.

"Well, well, sit down," Madder said. "Glad to see you." He fussed around behind his desk and adjusted a burst-out seat cushion, sat on it. "Nice of you to drop around. Business?"

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