Jim Hanvey was not at all the type of man one envisions when the word
"detective" is mentioned. He was immoderately large and shapeless
and his cheap ready-made clothes flapped grotesquely about the
ungainly figure. Above a collar of inconsequential height but amazing
circumference arose a huge head which contained a face of incarnadined
complexion, scant and unkempt hair, pendulous jowls and twin chins. His
lips were large and loose, ears flappy, and his eyes----
The eyes were the outstanding feature of Jim Hanvey's topography.
They were strikingly inexpressive; great sleepy orbs of fishy hue,
impressing one with the idea of sightlessness. It seemed impossible
that those eyes were capable of vision. They sat glassily in the
red pudgy face beneath a hedge of overdeveloped brows. And Jim's
blinking--as a matter of fact, he didn't blink; he yawned with his
eyelids. An interminably slow process of drooping the lids over
the dull-gray eyes, of holding them shut for a moment, and then of
uncurtaining them with even more maddening deliberation.
Jim emerged heavily from the dilapidated taxicab which screeched to a
halt before the ornate portals of the Hanover Apartments. He turned
hesitantly toward the taxidriver, who made no effort to conceal the
vastness of his contempt. "How much I owe you, son?"