Chapter 2
CELLINI SMITH fished for the right key and opened the door to his office. He slammed it shut with unnecessary violence and sat down at his desk. He could see the morning's mail where it had been dropped through the door slot and he could make out three envelopes.
Electricity, telephone, rent.
There was one missing. The outfit that delivered the spring water had probably given him up as an uncollectible account.
His eyes narrowed, his brows puckered, and his mouth twisted in a scowl. It was a tight-skinned, sharply boned face of a man in his early thirties. The ears were flat and small, the jaw angular, and the shrewd eyes widely set. It was a hard face, one that scowled easily and one that seemed glad of the fact.
He put a cigarette between his lips and pulled the smoke deep
