Trouble Is My Business Read Online Free PDF Page B

myself in a chair beside it and answered it. The voice dripped icicles.
    “Mr. Marlowe? This is Mr. Jeeter. I believe we met this morning. I’m afraid I was a little stiff with you.”
    “I’m a little stiff myself. Your son poked me in the jaw. I mean your stepson, or your adopted son—or whatever he is.”
    “He is both my stepson and my adopted son. Indeed?” He sounded interested. “And where did you meet him?”
    “In Miss Huntress’ apartment.”
    “Oh I see.” There had been a sudden thaw. The icicles had melted. “Very interesting. What did Miss Huntress have to say?”
    “She liked it. She liked him poking me in the jaw.”
    “I see. And why did he do that?”
    “She had him hid out. He overheard some of our talk. He didn’t like it.”
    “I see. I have been thinking that perhaps some consideration—not large, of course—should be granted to her for her co-operation. That is, if we can secure it.”
    “Fifty grand is the price.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t—”
    “Don’t kid me,” I snarled. “Fifty thousand dollars. Fifty grand. I offered her five hundred—just for a gag.”
    “You seem to treat this whole business in a spirit of considerable levity,” he snarled back. “I am not accustomed to that sort of thing and I don’t like it.”
    I yawned. I didn’t give a damn if school kept in or not. “Listen, Mr. Jeeter, I’m a great guy to horse around, but I have my mind on the job just the same. And there are some very unusual angles to this case. For instance a couple of gunmen just stuck me up in my apartment here and told me to lay off the Jeeter case. I don’t see why it should get so tough.”
    “Good heavens!” He sounded shocked. “I think you had better come to my house at once and we will discuss matters. I’ll send my car for you. Can you come right away?”
    “Yeah. But I can drive myself. I—”
    “No. I’m sending my car and chauffeur. His name is George; you may rely upon him absolutely. He should be there in about twenty minutes.”
    “O.K.,” I said. “That just gives me time to drink my dinner. Have him park around the corner of Kenmore, facing towards Franklin.” I hung up.
    When I’d had a hot-and-cold shower and put on some clean clothes I felt more respectable. I had a couple of drinks, small ones for a change, and put a light overcoat on and went down to the street.
    The car was there already. I could see it half a block down the side street. It looked like a new market opening. It had a couple of headlamps like the one on the front end of a streamliner, two amber foglights hooked to the front fender, and a couple of sidelights as big as ordinary head-lights. I came up beside it and stopped and a man stepped out of the shadows, tossing a cigarette over his shoulder with a neat flip of the wrist. He was tall, broad, dark, wore a peaked cap, a Russian tunic with a Sam Browne belt, shiny leggings and breeches that flared like an English staff major’s whipcords.
    “Mr. Marlowe?” He touched the peak of his cap with a gloved forefinger.
    “Yeah,” I said. “At ease. Don’t tell me that’s old man Jeeter’s car.”
    “One of them.” It was a cool voice that could get fresh.
    He opened the rear door and I got in and sank down into the cushions and George slid under the wheel and started the big car. It moved away from the curb and around the corner with as much noise as a bill makes in a wallet. We went west. We seemed to be drifting with the current, but we passed everything. We slid through the heart of Hollywood, the west end of it, down to the Strip and along the glitter of that to the cool quiet of Beverly Hills where the bridle path divides the boulevard.
    We gave Beverly Hills the swift and climbed along the foot-hills, saw the distant lights of the university buildings and swung north into Bel-Air. We began to slide up long narrow streets with high walls and no sidewalks and big gates. Lights on mansions glowed politely through the