The voice said:
“This is Mr. Charles Proctor Dawn speaking. I think you will find it well worth your while to appear at my offices at your earliest convenience.”
“Will I? Who are you?”
“ Mr. Charles Proctor Dawn, attorney-at-law. My suite is in the Rutledge Block, 310 Green Street. I think you will find it well—”
“Mind telling me part of what it’s about?” I asked.
“There are affairs best not discussed over the telephone. I think you will find—”
“All right,” I interrupted him again. “I’ll be around to see you this afternoon if I get a chance.”
“You will find it very, very advisable,” he assured me.
I hung up on that.
Mickey said:
“You were going to give me the what’s what on the Brand slaughter.”
I said:
“I wasn’t. I started to say it oughtn’t to be hard to trace Rolff—running around with a fractured skull and probably a lot of bandages. Suppose you try it. Give Hurricane Street a play first.”
Mickey grinned all the way across his comedian’s red face, said, “Don’t tell me anything that’s going on—I’m only working with you,” picked up his hat, and left me.