He turned his head and said to Glorie and Bugsey, who hung about outside, “Come in, you two, and shut the door.”
Noolen sat very still behind his desk. When Glorie came in, he put his fingers to his collar and eased it from his neck. Glorie didn’t look at him. She went over to a chair at the far end of the room and sat down. Bugsey shut the door and leaned against it. He, too, didn’t look at Noolen. There was a strained tension in the room.
Noolen managed to say: “What the hell’s this?”
Fenner took one of Noolen’s green dapple cigars from the desk box, clamped his teeth on it and struck a match with his thumb-nail. He spent a long minute lighting the cigar evenly, then he tossed the match away and sat on the edge of the desk.
Noolen said, “You’ve got a lot of crust, Ross. I told you I wasn’t interested in anything you’ve got to peddle. It still stands.”
Glorie said in a flat voice: “He isn’t Ross. His name is Fenner and he’s a private investigator, holding a license.”
Fenner turned his head and looked at her, but she was adjusting her skirt, a sulky, indifferent expression on her face.
Bugsey sucked in his breath. His gooseberry eyes popped. Noolen, who was reaching for a cigar when Glorie spoke, paused. His fat white hand hovered over the box like a seagull in flight, then he sat back, folding his hands on the blotter.
Fenner said, “If you were half alive, the news would have got round to you before.”
Noolen fidgeted with his hands. “Get out of here, he said thickly. “Private dicks are poison to me.”