Ashbury didn’t look at all like he had up at the gymnasium. He rolled his eyes over his glasses to look at me again, and reminded me of a chained mastiff. His eyes seemed to say that if he could get a couple more feet of chain, he’d snap my leg off.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Among other things, you’re going to be my trainer.”
“Your what?”
“Trainer.”
Bertha Cool flexed her big arms. “Build him up, Donald. You know — sparring work, jujitsu lessons, wrestling, boxing, road work.”
I stared at her. I’d be useless in a gymnasium as a Republican in a post office. I couldn’t chin myself with a block and tackle.
“Mr. Ashbury wants you to be in the house with him,” Bertha went on to explain. “No one must suspect you’re a detective. The family have known for a long time that he’s intending to do something about getting in shape. He wanted to arrange with Hashita to come to the house and give him lessons. And he’d been thinking about hiring a good detective. As soon as he saw your work in the gymnasium, he realized that if he could plant you as his trainer, that would solve his problem.”
“What,” I asked Ashbury, “do you want detected?”
“I want to find out what my daughter’s doing with her money. Find out who’s getting chunks of her dough — and why.”