Twelve Chinks and a Woman

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Fenner opened one eye as Paula Dolan put some elegant curves and her fluffy head round his office door. He regarded her vaguely, and then settled himself more comfortably. His large feet rested on the snowy blotting-pad, and the swiveled desk chair inclined perilously at an angle of 45°. He said sleepily, “Run away, Dizzy, I’ll play with you later. Right now I’m thinking.”

Some more curves filtered through the half-open door, and Paula came to the desk. “Wake up, Morpheus,” she said; “you got a client.”

Fenner groaned. “Tell him to go away. Tell him we’ve gone outta business. I gotta catch up some sleep sometimes, haven’t I?”

“What’s your bed for?” Paula said impatiently.

“Don’t ask questions like that,” Fenner mumbled, settling himself further down in the chair.

“Snap out of it, Dave,” Paula pleaded; “there’s a passion flower waiting outside, and she looks as if she’s got a load of grief to share with you.”

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