I swung at him. He took my blow on the chin without appearing to have noticed it. His hand whipped out a folded bandage, put it down over my eyes. I fought and tried to shout. Fingers closed over my hands, handcuffs snapped around my wrists. The car began a lurching series of turns, designed to make me lose all sense of direction.

After a while I felt the slow jolt as it ran up into a private driveway. I heard a garage door open and close. The bandage was taken off. I was in a garage. The outer door closed, and a side door opened onto a flight of stairs. We climbed the stairs to a hallway, past a kitchen, through a dining room, and into a living room.

I kept up the pretense.

“What is this?” I asked. “I thought you were going to take me to the station.”

“What station?”

“To see the chief.”

“You’re going to see the chief.”

“But he isn’t here?”

“Oh yes. He lives here.”

“You’re cops?” I asked.

The men looked at me with exaggerated surprise. “Cops?” they said. “Why, buddy, whatever gave you that idea? We never said we were cops. We simply said the chief wanted to see you. That’s a nickname we have for the big shot, you know.”

I figured there was no use in playing a part any more. I kept silent.

“Have a chair,” the thickset man said. “The chief will be in right away. He’ll ask you a few questions, then we’ll drive you back up town, and everything will be all hunky-dory.”

I sat down in the chair and waited. I heard quick, nervous steps in the corridor, and a fat individual, with blubbery lips and cheeks, who had perspiration smeared all over his forehead, came walking into the room with the quick, light step of a professional dancer. He was short, and he was pretty fat, but he stood straight as a ramrod, pushing his belly out in front of him; and his little short legs took quick, rapid-fire strides.

“The chief,” the tall man said.

The chief smiled and nodded, his bald head bobbing on his fat neck like a cork bobbing on water. “Who is he, Fred?” he asked.

The man with the battered nose said, “He’s with a gal by the name of Cool who runs a detective agency. They were employed to serve summons on Morgan Birks in the divorce action. He was hanging around the Perkins Hotel.”

“Oh yes. Oh, yes,” the chief said, rapidly, bobbing his head and smiling affably. “Yes, indeed. Pardon me for not recognizing you. And what’s your name?”

“Lam,” I said. “Donald Lam.”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Lam. I’m certainly glad to meet you, and it was very nice of you to come out, very nice indeed. Now tell me, Mr. Lam, you’re working for—what was the name, Fred?”