Blackmail
I had to push my client’s doorbell a lot before I got any play on it.
Finally the door was opened by the tall sunburned chauffeur. He was dressed in undershirt and pants, and had a billiard cue in one fist.
“What do you want?” he demanded, and then, when he got another look at me: “It’s you, is it? Well, what do you want?”
“I want to see Mr. Willsson.”
“At four in the morning? Go on with you,” and he started to close the door.
I put a foot against it. He looked from my foot to my face, hefted the billiard cue, and asked:
“You after getting your kneecap cracked?”
“I’m not playing,” I insisted. “I’ve got to see the old man. Tell him.”
“I don’t have to tell him. He told me no later than this afternoon that if you come around he didn’t want to see you.”
“Yeah?” I took the four love letters out of my pocket, picked out the first and least idiotic of them, held it out to the chauffeur, and said: “Give him that and tell him I’m sitting on the steps with the rest of them. Tell him I’ll sit here five minutes and then carry the rest of them to Tommy Robins of the Consolidated Press.”
The chauffeur scowled at the letter, said, “To hell with Tommy Robins and his blind aunt!” took the letter, and closed the door.