Rico adjusted his tie, smoothed down his thinning hair and went back to the office.
He came to a standstill just inside the door, fear clutching at his heart.
Seated in the red leather chair, chewing a dead cigar, was a short, thickset man with a red, freckled face, sandy hair and wide-set, cold, green eyes. He had on a grey suit, a little baggy at the knees and shiny at the elbows; a nigger brown hat rested far to the back of his head.
‘Hello, Rico,’ he said, eyeing Rico’s face with his bleak, green eyes. ‘Who’s been knocking you around?’
Rico smiled stiffly; his mouth felt frozen.
‘How did you get in here, Lieutenant?’ he asked, coming to the desk. ‘I haven’t seen you in weeks.’
Lieutenant George Olin of the Homicide Bureau crossed one thick leg over the other, took the cigar out of his mouth and stared at it with an expression of disgust. He tossed it into Rico’s trash basket, produced a cigar-case, selected another cigar and put the case back in his pocket.
‘I sneaked in,’ he said, staring at Rico. ‘I hoped to catch you on the wrong foot. Have I?’
Rico tried to laugh. The croaking sound he made deceived neither himself nor Olin.
‘I’m very careful where I put my feet,’ he said, and sat down. ‘What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?’