From Axford’s office I went straight to my rooms, left the outer door unlocked, and sat down to wait for Porky Grout. I had waited an hour and a half when he pushed the door open and came in.
“ ’Lo! How’s tricks?”
He swaggered to a chair, leaned back in it, put his feet on the table and reached for a pack of cigarettes that lay there.
That was Porky Grout. A pasty-faced man in his thirties, neither large nor small, always dressed flashily—even if sometimes dirtily—and trying to hide an enormous cowardice behind a swaggering carriage, a blustering habit of speech, and an exaggerated pretense of self-assurance.
But I had known him for three years; so now I crossed the room and pushed his feet roughly off the table, almost sending him over backward.
“What’s the idea?” He came to his feet, crouching and snarling. “Where do you get that stuff? Do you want a smack in the—”
I took a step toward him. He sprang away, across the room.
“Aw, I didn’t mean nothin’. I was only kiddin’!”
“Shut up and sit down,” I advised him.
I had known this Porky Grout for three years, and had been using him for nearly that long, and I didn’t know a single thing that could be said in his favor. He was a coward. He was a liar. He was a thief, and a hophead. He was a traitor to his kind and, if not watched, to his employers. A nice bird to deal with! But detecting is a hard business, and you use whatever