“Who is he, where does he live, and what does he look like?”
“Arthmont A. Freel, Montway Rooms, around sixty, and mousy, a little wisp of a fellow with stooped shoulders, faded eyes, faded hair, faded clothes, and a faded personality, shabby in a genteel sort of way. Put him in a group of three, and you’d lose him in the crowd. He doesn’t stand out any more than cigar ashes on a gray rug on a misty morning.”
Mason said, “Feeling pretty good, aren’t you, Paul?”
“Uh huh.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Just the way I feel. I got an awful bang out of seeing you turn the tables on that girl when she tried to call the cop. You sure put that one over, Perry. The cop was nodding to himself when you walked away, as though he’d discharged his duties to the taxpayers in noble shape and was entitled to a merit badge.”
The phone on Mason’s desk rang. He picked it up and heard Gertie say, “Dr. Willmont’s coming on,” and then a moment later, Dr. Willmont’s crisply professional voice saying, “Yes, Perry. What is it?”
Mason said, “I want a blood donor, Doctor — about a pint.”
“What type?” Dr. Willmont asked.
“The type that will keep its mouth shut,” Mason said.