"You're making a big mistake," Lasseroe said.
"I wouldn't talk about making mistakes if I were you," Frey said lightly. He felt very good. All a private investigator needed was one good break like this, and he was made. The cases would come in thick and fast, and so would the dough. Frey smiled.
Tess Rillette was saying, "I told you, Mr. Frey—you were letting yourself in for a lot of difficulty, and—"
"Do I turn here?" Mogin was saying.
There were a few police cars in front of the high-class apartment where Harry Duggin had lived, and where he had died. The coupe parked across the street and Frey saw the crowd and the reporters. He said, "All right—here we go."
Everyone was looking and murmuring as the five of them went into the apartment house. A cop walked over and said, "What's this?"
"It's the Harry Duggin case," Frey said.
They stepped into the elevator and went up seven floors to the apartment. There were a lot of cops up there, a lot of plain clothes men and lads from the homicide bureau. Reporters and photographers and a doctor.
"What's this?" a plain clothes man said.