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From Axford’s office I went straight to my rooms, left the outer door unlocked, and sat down to wait for Porky Grout. I had waited an hour and a half when he pushed the door open and came in.
“ ’Lo! How’s tricks?”
He swaggered to a chair, leaned back in it, put his feet on the table and reached for a pack of cigarettes that lay there.
That was Porky Grout. A pasty-faced man in his thirties, neither large nor small, always dressed flashily—even if sometimes dirtily—and trying to hide an enormous cowardice behind a swaggering carriage, a blustering habit of speech, and an exaggerated pretense of self-assurance.
But I had known him for three years; so now I crossed the room and pushed his feet roughly off the table, almost sending him over backward.
“What’s the idea?” He came to his feet, crouching and snarling. “Where do you get that stuff? Do you want a smack in the—”
I took a step toward him. He sprang away, across the room.
“Aw, I didn’t mean nothin’. I was only kiddin’!”
“Shut up and sit down,” I advised him.
I had known this Porky Grout for three years, and had been using him for nearly that long, and I didn’t know a single thing that could be said in his favor. He was a coward. He was a liar. He was a thief, and a hophead. He was a traitor to his kind and, if not watched, to his employers. A nice bird to deal with! But detecting is a hard business, and you use whatever tools come to hand. This Porky was an effective tool if handled right, which meant keeping your hand on his throat all the time and checking up every piece of information he brought in.
His cowardice was—for my purpose—his greatest asset. It was notorious throughout the criminal Coast; and though nobody—crook or not—could possibly think him a man to be trusted, nevertheless he was not actually distrusted. Most of his fellows thought him too much the coward to be dangerous; they thought he would be afraid to betray them; afraid of the summary vengeance that crookdom visits upon the squealer. But they didn’t take into account Porky’s gift for convincing himself that he was a lionhearted fellow, when no danger was near. So he went freely where he desired and where I sent him, and brought me otherwise unobtainable bits of information upon matters in which I was interested.
For nearly three years I had used him with considerable success, paying him well, and keeping him under my heel. “Informant” was the polite word that designated him in my reports; the underworld has even less lovely names than the common “stool-pigeon” to denote his kind.
“I have a job for you,” I told him, now that he was seated again, with his feet on the floor.
His loose mouth twitched up at the left corner, pushing that eye into a knowing squint.
“I thought so.”
He always says something like that.
“I want you to go down to Halfmoon Bay and stick around Tin-Star Joplin’s joint for a few nights. Here are two photos”—sliding one of Pangburn and one of the girl across the table. “Their names and descriptions are written on the backs. I want to know if either of them shows up down there, what they’re doing, and where they’re hanging out. It may be that Tin-Star is covering them up.”
Porky was looking knowingly from one picture to the other.
“I think I know this guy,” he said out of the corner of his mouth that twitches.
That’s another thing about Porky. You can’t mention a name or give a description that won’t bring that same remark, even though you make them up.
“Here’s some money.” I slid some bills across the table. “If you’re down there more than a couple of nights, I’ll get some more to you. Keep in touch with me, either over this phone or the undercover one at the office. And—remember this—lay off the stuff! If I come down there and find you all snowed up, I promise that I’ll tip Joplin off to you.”
He had finished counting the money by now—there wasn’t a whole lot to count—and he threw it contemptuously back on the table.
“Save that for newspapers,” he sneered. “How am I goin’ to get anywheres if I can’t spend no money in the joint?”
“That’s plenty for a couple of days’ expenses; you’ll probably knock back half of it. If you stay longer than a couple of days, I’ll get more to you. And you get your pay when the job is done, and not before.”
He shook his head and got up.
“I’m tired of pikin’ along with you. You can turn your own jobs. I’m through!”
“If you don’t get down to Halfmoon Bay tonight, you are through,” I assured him, letting him get out of the threat whatever he liked.
After a little while, of course, he took the money and left. The dispute over expense money was simply a preliminary that went with every job I sent him out on.