The side door opened. A man stuck his head in, stared incredulously, and jumped back.
I said to the Jap, “All right, Hashita, that’s all.”
There was another side door. It led into a private toilet and washroom. Another door from there opened into an office which would have made a bank president turn green with envy. It didn’t look as though it had been used for some time. There was dust on the desk and on the chairs. I figured that would be Crumweather’s office. A door led to a corridor, and then there were back stairs. The Jap and I went down.
I shook hands with the Jap and gave him fifty dollars of my expense money. He didn’t want to take it. I could see the red glints still in his eyes. I said, “The pupil begs the pardon of Honorable Master. The pupil was wrong.”
He bowed, a stiff-necked bow of cold courtesy. “It is master,” he said, “who is very dumb. Good-night, please. Do not call again — ever.”
He got in the taxi and went home.
I turned around to look for another cab.
One was pulling in toward the curb. I flagged it, and motioned to the driver I’d pick him up as soon as he dropped his passenger. He nodded, brought the car to a stop, hopped out, and opened the door.
The man who got out of the taxi was C. Layton Crumweather.
He looked at me, and his bony face wreathed into a cordial smile. “Well, well,” he said, “it’s Mr. Lam, the man with the oil land proposition. Tell me, Mr. Lam, how are things coming?”