I guess you're right
about the windows though. How did you find me out?"
"Telephone directory, aided by my natural intelligence," Wingate replied.
"What are you doing these days?"
"Trying to run straight and finding it filthily difficult," the
other answered.
"What do you call yourself, anyway?" Wingate asked. "There's nothing
except your name on the board downstairs."
Slate nodded.
"I'm the only one in the building," he said, "who isn't either a
theatrical agent or a bookmaker. I've got just a small connection amongst
the riffraff as a man who can be trusted to collect the necessary
evidence in a divorce case, especially if there's a little collusion, or
find a few false witnesses to help a thief with an alibi. Once or twice I
have even gone so far as to introduce a receiver to a successful thief."
"Hm!" Wingate observed. "You see all sorts of life."
"I do indeed," Slate admitted. "What do you want with me? I can find you
a murderer who's looking for a job, or a burglar who would take anything
on where there was a reasonable chance of success, or half a dozen
witnesses--a little tarnished, though, I'm afraid they may be--who would
swear anything. Or I can find you several beautiful ladies--beautiful,
that is to say, with the aid of one of the costumers up the street and a
liberal supply of cosmetics--who will inveigle any young man you want
dealt with into any sort of situation, provided he is fool enough and the
pay is good.
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