“Let’s hear your business if you’ve got any.” The man continued to point the revolver at Bill’s chest.
“My business,” he said evenly, “is with Mr. Johnson. If you work for the man who sent me here I advise you to tell that to Mr. Johnson—and tell it pronto.”
“Cut the spiel and let him in, Jake!” called a soft voice whose owner was hidden by the half open door.
Jake muttered a surly curse, but he stepped aside and Bill walked into the room. The door slammed behind him and he heard the key turn in the lock.
He was surprised to find himself in a large and handsomely furnished sitting room. Thick hangings of gold brocade were drawn over the windows, shutting out the night and with it the air. The room was close and filled with tobacco smoke. Two massive couches upholstered in brocade were set back to back in the center of the room. One end of the sitting room was filled by a huge mahogany sideboard, loaded with bottles and glasses. At the other end stood a round card table covered with dark green felt. A number of heavily upholstered arm chairs lined the walls, and the polished floor was almost completely covered with handsome Oriental rugs. The walls were hung with a number of really good hunting prints.
Bill glimpsed a door behind the card table, but almost immediately his eyes focussed on a young man who sat on the arm of one of the couches. He was tall and very slender, immaculately dressed in white flannels and a light blue, double-breasted sports coat with dull gold buttons. Bill was astonished to see that the highly manicured nails of his white, tapering fingers were tinted carmine. His soft voice when he spoke lisped like a girl’s.
“I’m Slim Johnson,” he said languidly. “What did you want to see me about, buddy?”
Bill imitated Sanders’ quick, nervous nod.
“Zenas!” he said, and waited....
“Okay,” lisped young Johnson. “Bill Bolton, isn’t it?—The guy that dished von Hiemskirk’s hash?”