Mason met the younger man’s eyes and said, “Yes, Cuff, it’s Packard.”
Cuff glanced over toward Jimmy Driscoll, then shifted his eyes quickly back to Mason. “Then,” he said slowly, “we’ll never know just what it was Packard saw in the window.”
Mason turned to face Driscoll. “Don’t be too sure about that, Cuff.”
So far as he could ascertain, Driscoll’s face didn’t change expression by so much as the faintest flicker.
Chapter thirteen
Mason gave his card to a sallow-faced woman in the late forties, who said, without even attempting a smile, “If you haven’t an appointment with Mr. Dimmick I doubt if he’ll see you. But be seated and I’ll inquire.”
Mason said, “Thanks,” and remained standing.
She vanished through a door marked, “ABNER DIMMICK, Private ” and was gone for some thirty seconds. When she returned, she stood on the threshold, an angular figure, attired in a heavy woolen suit, deep-set, black eyes staring in lackluster scrutiny from behind horn-rimmed spectacles.
“Mr. Dimmick will see you,” she said, and stood to one side for Mason to pass.
Mason closed the door behind him. Dimmick, seated back of a desk piled high with leather-backed law books, said, “How d’ye do, Counselor. Excuse me for not getting up. My rheumatism, you know. Sit down. What can I do for you — no, wait a minute.”