"Who you is?"
"Hanvey is my name. Mr. James Hanvey."
"Huh!" The boy plugged in viciously, and then, into the transmitter:
"That you, Mistuh Sherwood?... There's a guy down here wants to see
you.... Says his name is James Hanvey.... Yeh! Hanvey.... All right,
suh." He turned back and vouchsafed his information grudgingly. "Mistuh
Sherwood says come right up. Apahtment Fo'-twelve."
Hanvey moved a couple of steps toward the elevator, then turned for a
moment. "Son!"
"What?"
"Next time I come remember I ain't no guy. I'm a feller."
Sherwood answered Hanvey's ring in person; a slender man of medium
height, distinguished in appearance, exquisitely groomed, very much at
ease. He ushered his visitor into a richly comfortable library, where
he motioned toward a chair, into which Hanvey thumped gratefully. He
stared about the room in frank approval.
"Awful soft, eh, Arthur?"
The host smiled, exhibiting twin rows of even white teeth. "Rather
comfortable."
"Business must be good."
"It is. Very."
"H'mph!"
Hanvey yawned with his eyes, inspecting the rich furnishings, which
gave testimony to the unerringly fastidious taste of the owner. Still
gazing Jim produced from a tarnished almost-silver cigar case two
projectiles of profound blackness. He handed one to Sherwood, who
accepted it gingerly, smelled of it suspiciously, and then emitted a
single exclamation of protest.
"It ain't the worst in the world," remarked Hanvey. Sherwood produced
a bottle and glasses. Hanvey joined him with gusto. "Here's to you,
Arthur. May the judge give you a light sentence."
Sherwood smiled with his lips, but in his eyes lay a faint light of
apprehension. He made no comment upon the detective's toast. For a few
minutes silence maintained between them, Hanvey draining his liquor at
a gulp, Sherwood sipping his with the relish of a connoisseur. It was
the visitor who broke the silence.
"It's gonna be pretty tough, Arthur--givin' up all of this."
"Is it?"
"Uh-huh. But you shouldn't have done it."