“You want to see me?” he barked.

He was about six feet two and not much of it soft. His eyes were stone gray with flecks of cold light in them. He filled a large size in smooth gray flannel with a narrow chalk stripe, and filled it elegantly. His manner said he was very tough to get along with.

I stood up. “If you’re Mr. Derace Kingsley.”

“Who the hell did you think I was?”

I let him have that trick and gave him my other card, the one with the business on it. He clamped it in his paw and scowled down at it.

“Who’s M’Gee?” he snapped.

“He’s just a fellow I know.”

“I’m fascinated,” he said, glancing back at Miss Fromsett. She liked it. She liked it very much. “Anything else you would care to let drop about him?”

“Well, they call him Violets M’Gee,” I said. “On account of he chews little throat pastilles that smell of violets. He’s a big man with soft silvery hair and a cute little mouth made to kiss babies with. When last seen he was wearing a neat blue suit, wide-toed brown shoes, gray homburg hat, and he was smoking opium in a short briar pipe.”

“I don’t like your manner,” Kingsley said in a voice you could have cracked a Brazil nut on.

“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m not selling it.”

He reared back as if I had hung a week-old mackerel under his nose. After a moment he turned his back on me and said over his shoulder:

“I’ll give you exactly three minutes. God knows why.”

He burned the carpet back past Miss Fromsett’s desk to his door, yanked it open and let it swing to in my face. Miss Fromsett liked that too, but I thought there was a little sly laughter behind her eyes now.

TWO

The private office was everything a private office should be. It was long and dim and quiet and air-conditioned and its windows were shut and its gray venetian blinds half-closed to keep out the July glare. Gray drapes matched the gray carpeting. There was a large black and silver safe in the corner and a low row of low filing cases that exactly matched it. On the wall there was a huge tinted photograph of an elderly party with a chiselled beak and whiskers and a wing collar. The Adam’s apple that edged through his wing collar looked harder than most people’s chins. The plate underneath the photograph read: Mr. Matthew Gillerlain 1860–1934.

Derace Kingsley marched briskly behind about eight hundred dollars’ worth of executive desk and planted his backside in a tall leather chair. He reached himself a panatela out of a copper and mahogany box and trimmed it and lit it with a fat copper desk lighter. He took his time about it. It didn’t matter about my time. When he had finished this, he leaned back and blew a little smoke and said:

“I’m a business man. I don’t fool around. You’re a licensed detective, your card says. Show me something to prove it.”

I got my wallet out and handed him things to prove it. He looked at them and threw them back across the desk. The celluloid holder with the photostat license in it fell to the floor. He didn’t bother to apologize.

“I don’t know M’Gee,” he said. “I know Sheriff Petersen. I asked for the name of a reliable man to do a job. I suppose you are the man.”

“M’Gee is in the Hollywood sub-station of the sheriffs office,” I said. “You can check on that.”

“Not necessary. I guess you might do, but don’t get flip with me. And remember when I hire a man he’s my man. He does exactly what I tell him and he keeps his mouth shut. Or he goes out fast. Is that clear? I hope I’m not too tough for you.”

“Why not leave that an open question?” I said.

He frowned. He said sharply: “What do you charge?”

“Twenty-five a day and expenses. Eight cents a mile for my car.”

“Absurd,” he said. “Far too much. Fifteen a day flat. That’s plenty. I’ll pay the mileage, within reason, the way things are now. But no joyriding.”

I blew a little gray cloud of cigarette smoke and fanned it with my hand. I said nothing. He seemed a little surprised that I said nothing.

He leaned over the desk and pointed with his cigar. “I haven’t hired you yet,” he said, “but if I do, the job is absolutely confidential. No talking it over with your cop friends. Is that understood?”

“Just what do you want done, Mr. Kingsley?”

“What do you care? You do all kinds of detective work, don’t you?”

“Not all kinds. Only the fairly honest kinds.”

He stared at me level-eyed, his jaws tight. His gray eyes had an opaque look.

“For one thing I don’t do divorce business,” I said. “And I get a hundred down as a retainer—from strangers.”

“Well, well,” he said, in a voice suddenly soft. “Well, well.”

“And as for your being too tough for me,” I said, “most of the clients start out either by weeping down my shirt or bawling me out to show who’s boss. But usually they end up very reasonable—if they’re still alive.”

“Well, well,” he said again, in the same soft voice, and went on staring at me. “Do you lose very many of them?” he asked.

“Not if they treat me right,” I said.

“Have a cigar,” he said.

I took a cigar and put it in my pocket.

“I want you to find my wife,” he said. “She’s been missing for a month.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll find your wife.”

He patted his desk with both hands. He stared at me solidly. “I think you will at that,” he said. Then he grinned. “I haven’t been called down like that in four years,” he said.

I didn’t say anything.

“Damn it all,” he said, “I liked it. I liked it fine.” He ran a hand through his thick dark hair. “She’s been gone a whole month,” he said. “From a cabin we have in the mountains. Near Puma Point. Do you know Puma Point?”

I said I knew Puma Point.

“Our place is three miles from the village,” he said, “partly over a private road. It’s on a private lake. Little Fawn Lake. There’s a dam three of us put up to improve the property. I own the tract with two other men. It’s quite large, but undeveloped and won’t be developed now for some time, of course. My friends have cabins, I have a cabin and a man named Bill Chess lives with his wife in another cabin rent free and looks after the place. He’s a disabled veteran with a pension. That’s all there is up there. My wife went up the middle of May, came down twice for weekends, was due down the 12th of June for a party and never showed up. I haven’t seen her since.”

“What have you done about it?” I asked.

“Nothing. Not a thing. I haven’t even been up there.” He waited, wanting me to ask why.

I said: “Why?”

He pushed his chair back to get a locked drawer open. He took out a folded paper and passed it over. I unfolded it and saw it was a Postal Telegraph form. The wire had been filed at El Paso on June 14th at 9:19 A.M. It was addressed to Derace Kingsley, 965 Carson Drive, Beverly Hills, and read:

“AM CROSSING TO GET MEXICAN DIVORCE STOP WILL MARRY CHRIS STOP GOOD LUCK AND GOODBY CRYSTAL.”