The Gay Detective. Lou Rand

last few days she wasn’t so sure; this nephew was definitely a character. Sort of on the swish side too, she thought. But maybe that was only the “theater” that had rubbed off on him. She hoped so, anyway, because he really did seem to be a nice person, if just a little too pretty for her tastes.

      Well, Hattie mused to herself while going up in the elevator, the man had said that he would be down early today and start taking over. Also, he’d said something about putting an ad in the papers for a steady assistant, and then going after some more business. Thank goodness! she mentally conceded.

      The old standby accounts were paying the rent. But she agreed that a few new clients would help. She was really happy that Francis had definitely said the agency would do no divorce work. In this he was following Harry’s ideas. Harry had believed steadfastly in the inviolable privacy of married people.

      Then, too, Francis had said something about decorators. He’d really been pretty vague about this, as she thought of it now. Hattie smilingly realized that most of her new employer’s conversations to date had definitely been on the vague side.

      “Oh hell!” she said softly to herself as she stepped out of the elevator. “It’ll all work out …”

      As she rounded the corner of the hallway leading to the agency offices, she was brought to an abrupt halt by the line of men stemming from the agency door. They were six deep, but waiting patiently, in front of the door bearing the inscription: “MORLEY AGENCY—PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS.”

      Why! she thought, dumbfounded, there must be dozens of them!

      The air was filled with the leavening smoke of half a hundred cigarettes, but there seemed to be little conversation. A glance along the line of men waiting so patiently and the realization that most of them carried a morning paper, made Hattie know at once that Francis must have put that advertisement in the paper. Humph! An assistant, no less. And from the want ads!

      Sniffing audibly and squaring her adequate shoulders in her smart suit, Hattie pushed her way through to the door behind which she could hear the phone ringing. The men near the door grudgingly gave way and allowed her to open it and get through.

      As they started to push in behind her, Hattie, instinctively feeling the need for a little preparation for the coming onslaught, turned and announced in very positive tones that the office would not be opened for at least another half hour. Disregarding another forward surge and an unpleasant murmur from the mob, she managed to get the door closed again, and bolted it from the inside.

      Darting to her desk, where she dumped her purse, paper, and a copy of a late novel which she was not to have an opportunity to open in the office, Hattie snatched at the jangling telephone. To an earnest inquiry about the “ad,” she briskly replied that Mr. Morley would only interview in person and hung up. The instrument rang again at once, with an almost identical interchange as a result.

      This continued for several minutes, until the pattern was broken by someone calling from Duke-and-Dixie’s, demanding to know when Mr. Morley would see the samples. This was all a complete mystery to Hattie, but certainly a welcome relief. She promptly suggested that Mr. Morley would probably look at anything at ten o’clock. For a further change, the other party hung up first.

      At this, Hattie simply took the receiver off the hook, and quickly fumbled open her morning paper. An ominous series of knocks and raps on the outer door had begun to add to the merry bedlam of the insistent telephone. The secretary of the Morley Agency thought that she had better get a look at that “ad,” before going any further.

      In days to come, when Hattie Campbell thought about this morning, she shuddered. Now, skimming through the extensive want ad section, she came almost at once to the notice over the more heavily printed name, “THE MORLEY AGENCY.”

      Lighting a cigarette for strength, she slowly and carefully read what was printed there, writhing slightly with each succeeding line:

      YOUNG MAN WANTED—Rough tough, attractive; 25-30; 6 ft. or over; educated, ex-service officer preferred. “Man-of-the-World” type, single, unattached, familiar with weapons. Must be bondable for permanent employment as assistant to private investigator. Excellent salary plus private apartment. Good future to right party. THE MORLEY AGENCY

      Lifting her eyes to the ceiling in silent prayer, Hattie could only murmur, “Oh brother,” as she wearily put the phone back on its hook. There was an immediate ringing as the result.

      At this moment, and just down the hall, Francis Morley stepped jauntily from the elevator. Slightly over medium height, he appeared to be slender; but to a knowing eye this slimness could be termed deceiving. More or less violently extreme sports clothes carried upwards the note set by the open sandals. He wore his hair in somewhat overlong but nicely waved blonde curls.

      Francis Morley’s features were fine, artistocratic and just a shade too regular. An unconsciously un-masculine something was hinted at by the play of brilliant blue eyes beneath his long and luxuriant lashes. The wide and handsome Morley brow, however, was at the moment a bit pale. This might have indicated a slightly hung-over condition. As he paced lissomely down the hall and approached the Agency door, he pondered briefly on this gay, gay city that offered so many opportunities for companionship. Shouldn’t have done it last night, he mused, this being the first day at the Agency and all.

      His line of thought was shattered as he turned the corner of the hall. The Agency was surrounded by dozens of restive men. All ages were here: young, old, fair and fat, well dressed and otherwise. All seemed to be hovering as if patiently waiting for something or someone. In a flash Francis realized that they had all come in answer to his ad, and were all probably waiting for him. Drawing himself up, he wedged his way through to the door, pausing only to give a haughty backward glance to some character who gave a low whistle. Fumbling out his key, he got it into the lock and opening the door, turned to the crowd: “I’m Mr. Morley. Now if you fellows will come in five or six at a time, I’ll see you all as quickly as possible.”