I said, “A man who has money has an advantage over a man who hasn’t. When he gets in a jam, he can buy his way out. You’d be foolish not to play the trumps you hold in your hand.”
“That’s right,” he said, and then after a moment went on. “Don’t you think, Donald, that you could tell me a few of the details? I’d like to know them.”
I stared at him steadily. “Would you?” I asked.
“Well, why not?”
I said, “The way I play the game, my clients don’t know anything.”
He frowned. “I don’t think I like that.”
“And in a way,” I went on, “the police can never charge them as being accessories.”
He jumped as though I’d stuck a pin into him. He blinked his eyes four or five times rapidly, and then got to his feet hurriedly. “Very wise, Donald, very wise indeed! Well, I fancy it’s about time to adjourn. I’m going to be rather busy after this, Donald. I won’t have an opportunity to talk with you. I just want you to know that I’m leaving things in your hands — entirely in your hands.”
He busted up the meeting as quickly as though I’d broken out with smallpox. I had. Legal smallpox.
About eight o’clock that night Bertha Cool telephoned. She’d had an awful time, she said, getting an office of the type I wanted, but she’d finally secured one. It was in the name of Charles E. Fischler, and was at room six-twenty-two in the Commons Building. Elsie Brand would be there at nine o’clock the next morning to open up the office, and she’d have keys.