STANLEY WARWICK sat facing Doctor Albert Palermo. They formed a remarkable contrast.
The detective’s face was furrowed with deep lines. He was a rocklike man whose appearance also bespoke energy. He had removed his gray coat and now appeared in a wrinkled suit.
One easily recognized him as a man who did not care for formalities — a hard-headed investigator who could not be deceived by the gloss of gentility.
All this was apparent to Palermo; yet the suave physician preserved his air of smoothness. He was wearing a business suit of the latest cut. Immaculate to the extreme, he exhibited an air of superiority.
He summoned Hassan with a handclap. The servant appeared with two glasses of golden liqueur.
Warwick gruffly declined the drink. Palermo waved the servant away.
“Let’s get down to business, doctor,” said Warwick, in a deep voice. “You called me on the phone a short while ago. Said you wanted to see me. I have never met you before. Why did you call me?”
“I wanted some information,” replied Palermo. “I thought perhaps you might know who was investigating the death of a man called Gunner Macklin.”
“Is that all?” Warwick laughed grimly. “Did it ever occur to you that the detective department knows how to manage its own affairs?”
“I have known the detective department to welcome information,” replied Palermo, in an unruffled tone.