“Kidnappin’ is a Federal offense. I can’t do better’n the F.B.I. You must be patient. They’ll turn her up.”
“But, Mr. Fenner—”
Fenner shook his head. He got to his feet. “I’m sorry, but I can’t get round to it.”
Lindsay’s face puckered like a disappointed child’s. He put out his hand and held on to Fenner’s sleeve. “Mr. Fenner, do this for me. You won’t regret it. You can charge what you like. You can find my little girl sooner than anyone. I know you can. Mr. Fenner, I beg you to do this.”
Fenner’s eyes were chips of ice. He took Lindsay’s hand off his arm gently but firmly. “Listen,” he said. “I’m my own boss; I don’t work for anyone. If I want to take an assignment, I take it. If I don’t, I turn it down. Right now, I’ve got something that’s giving me an itch. I’m sorry your kid’s got herself into trouble, but I can’t do anythin’ about it. The F.B.I. is big enough to take care of your daughter and hundreds of other guys’ daughters. I’m sorry, but I’m not doing it.”
He jerked his head at Paula and walked out of the lounge. Lindsay dropped his hands helplessly, and very quietly began to cry. Paula patted his arm. Then she got up and went out of the lounge. Fenner was standing waiting for her. He said savagely, as she walked up, “You must start crimpin’. What the hell do you think we’re runnin’—a dog’s home?”
Paula gave him a mean look. “That old guy’s lost his daughter; doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“It means a pain in the neck to me, that’s all,” Fenner snapped. “Come on back to the office—we’ve got work to do.”
“There are times when I think you’re cute,” Paula said bitterly, moving towards the reception-hall. “But right now I’d swop you for a lead nickel and a bad smell.”
A tall young man uncurled himself from one of the big lounges and stepped up to Fenner. “I’m Grosset of the D.A.’s office. I want to talk to you.”