“That wasn’t so difficult. They brought him in a big laundry basket, up the trade entrance, and unpacked him in an empty office before shooting him into your room.”
“Don’t try to pull that one,” Fenner said. “They didn’t bring him to me. They left him in the empty office.”—Grosset made a noise like tearing calico.
“Did anyone see the guys who brought him?”
“No.”
“Well, thanks, pal. I’ll do the same for you one day. Nothin’ else? Nothin’ that seemed odd to you?”
“Plenty that seemed odd, but nothing that adds up. The guy had his throat cut and someone sewed it up for him. That’s odd. Then he’d marks all over his back as if someone had beaten him up with a whip some time. That’s odd too.”
Fenner stiffened. “What was that? Someone had beaten this Chink up?”
“That’s right. He’d got weals all over him. That mean anything to you?”
“Not just yet, it doesn’t, but it helps,” Fenner said, and hung the receiver on its prong. He sat staring at the telephone for several minutes, his face blank, and a puzzled look clouding his eyes.
Paula, coming back a couple of hours later, found him sitting slouched in his chair, his feet on the desk, tobacco ash all over his coat, and the same puzzled look in his eyes.