“And how much does the Crosby estate pay into your welfare fund, Brandon?” I asked.
“How much did old man Crosby slip you for hushing up that auto-killing Maureen performed two years ago? Respectable and eminent? Don’t make me laugh. Salzer’s as respectable and eminent as Delmonico’s chucker-out. How come he signed Macdonald Crosby’s death certificate when he isn’t even qualified?”
“Get out!” Brandon said very quietly.
We stared at each other for perhaps the best part of four seconds, then I shrugged, turned my back on him and made for the door.
“Come on, Paula, let’s get out of here before we suffocate,” I said, and jerked open the door. “Remember that little crack about taking me up a dark alley. It’s just as much fun sueing the Captain of Police for assault as it is anyone else.”
I stamped down the long passage behind Paula. Mifflin came after us walking like a man in hob-nailed boots treading on eggs.
He caught up with us at the end of the passage.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Come in here,” and he opened his office door.
We went in because both Paula and I liked Mifflin, and besides, he was too useful to fall out with. He shut the door and leaned against it. His red rubbery face was worried.
“That was a sweet way to talk to Brandon,” he said bitterly. “You’re crazy, Vic. You know as well as I do that kind of stuff won’t get you anywhere.”