“You have a message from Mr. Daumery?”
“Yes, sir, for George Dickson.”
“I’m Dickson. Hand it through to me.”
“I can’t. It’s verbal.”
“Then say it. What is it?”
“I’ll have to see you first. You were described to me. Mr. Daumery is in a little trouble.”
For a couple of seconds nothing happened, then the door opened wide enough to admit ten bags of peanuts abreast. Since he had certainly had his hoof placed to keep it from opening, I evened up by promptly placing mine to keep it from shutting. The light was nothing wonderful, but good enough to see that he was a husky middle-aged specimen with a wide mouth, dark-colored deepset eyes, and a full share of chin.
“What kind of trouble?” he snapped.
“He’ll have to tell you about it,” I said apologetically. “I’m just a messenger. All I can tell you is that I was instructed to ask you to come to him.”
“Why didn’t he phone me?”