He was a pleasant-looking baldheaded man who didn't seem to have a care in the world except to keep his pipe lit.

"Offices are hard to find, Mr. Marlowe. If you want one on Canyon Drive, as I assume you do, it will cost you."

"I don't want one on Canyon Drive. I want one on some side street or on Sioux Avenue. I couldn't afford one on the main stem."

I gave him my card and let him look at the photostat of my license.

"I don't know," he said doubtfully. "The police department may not be too happy. This is a resort town and the visitors have to be kept happy. If you handle divorce business, people are not going to like you too well."

"I don't handle divorce business and people very seldom like me at all. As for the cops, I'll explain myself to them, and if they want to run me out of town, my wife won't like it. She has just rented a pretty fancy place in the section out near Romanoff's new place."

He didn't fall out of his chair but he damn well had to steady himself. "You mean Harlan Potter's daughter? I heard she had married some-well the hell with it, what do I mean? You're the man, I take it. I'm sure we can fix you up, Mr. Marlowe. But why do you want it on a side street or on Sioux Avenue? Why not right in the best section?"

"I'm paying with my own money. I don't have a hell of a lot."

"But your wife-"

"Listen good, Thorson. The most I make is a couple of thousand a month-gross. Some months nothing at all. I can't afford a showy layout."

He lit his pipe for about the ninth time. Why the hell do they smoke them if they don't know how?

"Would your wife like that?"

"What my wife likes or dislikes doesn't enter into our business, Thorson. Have you got anything or haven't you? Don't con me. I've been worked on by the orchids of the trade. I can be had, but not by your line."

"Well-"