We went into the chief’s private office. He pulled a chair over to his desk for me and then sat in his own, ignoring the ex-dick.

I gave Noonan the sick girl’s document.

He gave it one glance, bounced out of his chair, and smashed a fist the size of a cantaloup into MacSwain’s face.

The punch carried MacSwain across the room until a wall stopped him. The wall creaked under the strain, and a framed photograph of Noonan and other city dignitaries welcoming somebody in spats dropped down to the floor with the hit man.

The fat chief waddled over, picked up the picture and beat it to splinters on MacSwain’s head and shoulders.

Noonan came back to his desk, puffing, smiling, saying cheerfully to me:

“That fellow’s a rat if there ever was one.”