Grosset said, “I don’t think we’ve run into you before.” He crossed his legs, showing black-and-white check socks. “I’ve checked your license. You were the guy who made so much money out of the Blandish kidnapping case. That was when you were a down-at-heel investigator new on the job. You got a lucky break and you pulled out of Kansas and put up a plate here. That’s right, isn’t it?”
Fenner forced a long stream of smoke down his nostrils. “You’re tellin’ the story,” he said; “you’ve got it right up to now.”
Grosset looked wise. “You’ve been in New York six months. You don’t seem to have done much in that time.”
Fenner yawned. “I pick an’ choose,” he said indifferently.
“We got a pretty hot tip about you this morning.”
Fenner sneered pleasantly. “Yeah? So hot you sent some bulls out to haul me in and they went away with fleas in their ears.”
Grosset smiled. “Since then, we’ve looked over the block,” he said. “We’ve found a murdered Chinaman in an empty office near yours.”
Fenner raised his eyebrows. “What you squawking about? Want me to find who killed him for you?”
“The tip we got this morning was about a dead Chinaman who was to be found in your office.”
“Ain’t that sad? What happened? Did they plant him in the wrong room?”