I laughed. “Suit yourself,” I said, handing him a hundred-dollar note and a five spot. “You’ll have a fine spread for your front page in a day or so.”
“Don’t tell me,” Davis said with an exaggerated shudder. “Let it come as a surprise.”
3
Clairbold was a young blond man in a brown suit and a cocoa-coloured straw hat with a brown and blue tropical band. He followed Tim into the sitting-room, and looked at me the way a morbid sightseer looks at a messy street accident.
I eyed him over. He was very young. His face was pink and plump, and the blond beard on his chin was carelessly shaved. His eyes were inquisitive and a little scared. His teeth projected, giving him a look of a young, amiable rabbit. He didn’t look a shamus; that, of course, was in his favour.
“Park your fanny,” I said, waving to a chair, “and have a drink.”
He edged into the chair as if it was a bear-trap. Then he took off his hat, held it on his knees. His blond hair was slicked down, parted in the middle.
“How do you like working for me ?” I asked, pushing the bottle of Scotch and a glass towards him.
“I like it fine, Mr. Cain,” he said nervously; shook his head at the bottle. “No, thank you. I don’t use it.”
“You mean you don’t drink?”