“Yes.”
“Now that,” he told her, “is a thought. Stay around and listen to what they have to say, Della. If I cough loudly, start taking notes of the conversation.”
Della nodded, vanished through the door, to return in a matter of seconds, ushering in a white-haired man with an acrimonious countenance, a heavy cane in his right hand punctuating his steps as he walked. Slightly behind him was a young man in the late twenties, in whose china-blue eyes glittered a devil-may-care twinkle which belied the self-effacing manner with which he kept a step or two behind the older man.
The white-haired man in the lead pounded his way across the office. “How d’ye do,” he said explosively. “You’re Mason. I’m Dimmick — Dimmick, Gray & Peabody. Perhaps you’ve heard of us. I’ve heard of you.”
He shifted his cane to his left hand, pushed forward his right, said, “Careful now. Remember, I’m an old man. I’ve got rheumatism in that hand. Don’t try to crush my bones. This is Cuff, Rodney Cuff, my assistant. In the office with me. Don’t know yet whether or not he’s any good. Isn’t fitted for our type of work, anyway. We’re in a mess, a devil of a mess. Perhaps you’ve heard about it.”
Mason shook hands with Cuff, motioned his visitors to chairs, and assured Dimmick he hadn’t heard of it.
Dimmick clasped his interlocked fingers about the head of the heavy cane, lowered himself gingerly into the overstuffed leather chair. Cuff dropped into one of the plain wooden chairs, crossed his legs, hooked an elbow over the back of the chair, and gazed approvingly at Della Street.
Abner Dimmick had a high forehead, fringed with gray hair, bushy eyebrows which raised and lowered, punctuating his remarks. There were heavy pouches under his eyes. His mouth was as decisive as the jaws of a steel trap. A stubby mustache, matching the bushy eyebrows, gave his face an appearance of frosty austerity.
“What’s the matter?” Mason asked.
“Dimmick, Gray & Peabody mixed up in a criminal case! Can you imagine it? Damnedest thing I ever heard of!”