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On the chance that he might be a client, however, I did not turn around, but kept walking; approached him.

“Mr. Heller?” he said. He smiled tentatively; the skin of his face pulled tight over his cheeks. Like he’d never smiled before. Even tentatively.

“That’s right,” I said, and he stood to one side as I unlocked the pebbled-glass door.

“I’d like to inquire about your services,” he said.

I smiled and made a gracious gesture with one hand. “I’d like you to,” I said, and he nodded, and stepped inside.

Mine was a good-size office, but there was no outer waiting area, just one big room, with cream-color plaster walls. A big scarred oak desk was opposite the door, and behind the desk were windows, several of which I immediately opened to let a little air in. Out the windows was a view of the El. There was also a brown leather couch with tears repaired with brown tape, a wooden filing cabinet, a hat tree and, against the right wall as you came in, a big brown cabinet.

“Is that a Murphy bed?” my potential client asked.

I got him a chair and he sat across from my desk, which I got back behind and said, “Yes. Were like Pinkerton’s. We never close.”

He shrugged. Seemed embarrassed to have brought it up. “I just…wondered. You just don’t often see a Murphy bed in an office.”

“I live here,” I said, taking my suitcoat off and tossing it on the desk, loosening my tie, rolling up my sleeves. It was hot, and, unlike Sally Rand, I had no fan. “If you’d like to take your coat off, be my guest. Make yourself at home.”

He waved that off, despite a faint beading of sweat along his forehead, but did place his hat on the edge of my desk, saying, almost incredulously, “You live here?”

“I try not to advertise it, because it doesn’t impress my other clients any more than it’s impressing you. But I have an arrangement with the landlord to live in the office in exchange for rent. I’m a night watchman of sorts.”

“I see.” He folded his arms, crossed his legs; tried to hide his second thoughts about hiring me.

“Times are hard,” I said.

He looked at me blankly.

“It’s been in all the papers,” I said.

“Oh. Yes. Of course. I…I’m not bothered by your lack of…”

“Of a secretary. Of associates. Of decent furniture. I’m relieved.”

He smiled again, a little nervous twitch of a smile; his face was tight as a mask. “I’m not a wealthy man, myself. I probably couldn’t afford someone like…Pinkerton’s or Hargraves. What are your rates, Mr. Heller?”

“Ten dollars a day and expenses.”

He nodded, stroked his mustache, adjusted the way his glasses were sitting on his nose.

“Is that too high for you?” I asked. “I assure you I’m fully qualified. I was on the police force here for a number of years….”

He twitched his smile again. “I won’t hold that against you, Mr. Heller.”

Where this flash of humor—however slight—came from, I hadn’t the faintest idea; but a brief sparkle in the slate eyes disappeared as quickly as it came, and he said, “I have full confidence in you, Mr. Heller.”

That stopped me.

“Why?” I said.

That stopped him.

“Well…let’s just say you were recommended by an attorney.”

“Who would your attorney be?”

“I, uh, didn’t say it was my attorney, Mr. Heller.”

“If I was referred to you by an attorney, I’d like to know who it was.”

“Is that important?”

“If I haven’t heard of him, I’m going to start wondering what this is about. Excuse me, but one thing I can’t allow my clients to be is evasive with me. I can’t do honest work for you if you won’t be honest with me. Fair enough?”

“Louis Piquett,” he said, softly.

“Louis Piquett,” I said.

I didn’t know what to make of that. I had done a job for Piquett once—through him, I’d performed a service for a certain underworld figure. Much of Piquett’s practice was criminal law, so it was natural he’d have connections with both mob and local government (the line between which was often a fine one).

Piquett had a large, and apparently mostly aboveboard, practice; he was, after all, a former city prosecutor—though admittedly that had been in the especially corrupt administration of Big Bill Thompson (a onetime law partner of his). That his client list included a who’s who of bank robbers and gangsters—among them Leo Brothers, the accused slayer of Jake Lingle—only made him “colorful” in Chicago terms.

“Okay,” I said, still a little thrown. “That’s a reference I can accept. How do you know Piquett?”

“He’s the attorney my employers recommended.”

“Who are your employers?”

“I’d rather not involve them—they’re a grain sales and service company, out of Gary.” He cleared his throat, and added, “Indiana?” as if I might not know where Gary was.

Well, this at least made sense; a grain company might have had business with the mob, back in the recent bootlegging past, which could lead them to Piquett. That seemed innocent enough. And so did my client.

I took out a yellow pad from a left-hand drawer. Began scrawling some notes in pencil.

“Why don’t we start with your name,” I said.

“Howard,” he said. “John Howard.”

“All right, Mr. Howard. What is it I can do for you?”