Reiger’s eyes opened. “Carlos ain’t got time for visitors,” he said. “I’ll tell him you’ve been in.”
Fenner drained his glass and stood up. Nightingale made a move, but Fenner stopped him with a gesture. He stood looking round at each man in turn. He said, “Well, I’m glad. I looked in. I thought this was a live outfit, an’ I find I’m wrong. You guys are no use to me. You think you’ve got this town by the shorts an’ you’re fat an’ lazy. You think you’re the big-shots, but that’s not the way I spell it. I think I’ll go an’ see Noolen, That guy’s supposed to be the south end of a horse. All right, then I’ll make him the north end. It’ll be more amusing than playin’ around with guys like you.”
Reiger slid his hand inside his coat, but Nightingale already had his rod out. “Hold it,” he said.
The four men sat still; their faces made Fenner want to laugh.
Nightingale said, “I asked him to come along. If he don’t like us, then let him go. A friend of Crotti’s is a friend of mine.”
Fenner said, “I’ll drop round some time an’ see you again.”
He walked out of the room, past the Cuban, who ignored him, and took the elevator down to the street level.
The commissionaire at the door looked as if he had some brains. Fenner asked him if he knew where he could find Noolen. The commissionaire said he’d got an office off Duval Street, and beckoned a cab. Fenner gave him a fin.
The commissionaire helped him into the cab as though he were made of china.
Noolen’s office was over a shop. Fenner had to go up a long flight of stairs before he located the frosted glass-panelled door. When he got inside, a flat-chested woman whose thirties were crowding up on her, regarded him suspiciously from behind a typewriter.