Kemp frowned; His long, pale fingers twitched on the top of the expensive leather briefcase, and he shifted in the office chair.
"As I said earlier, Mr. Leer, I am here on a matter requiring discretion. A week ago, Mr. Thayer discovered several photographs of an intimate and compromising nature had been stolen by this individual." Kemp removed a manila file folder from his briefcase and passed it to Leer, who surveyed the contents rapidly.
"Why does Mr. Thayer think this Jossi fellow is responsible for stealing the photos?"
"Aside from my client, Stanford Jossi is the only other person who knew of the location of the photographs. They were kept carefully hidden."
"I see," Leer said, lighting his second cigarette of the conversation.
"It is paramount to my client that these photographs be recovered and destroyed. He fears," Kemp paused, his face blanching, "You may, perhaps, be aware that Mr. Thayer is to be married next month to the socialite Gwendolin Preston, heiress to the Preston canning fortune?"
Leer hadn't been, but he nodded anyway. The buzz from his earlier drink was evaporating, replaced by a dull ache behind his temples. "It's the so what that I don't get here, Mr. Thayer. Don't deny it. It's no use."
The man who had introduced himself as Kemp started and gasped. "How? It's impossible. How did you know?"
Leer rolled his eyes. "First off, everything of mine you've touched in this office, you handled through that fancy snot rag of yours. You're pale. Too pale. Your skin hasn't seen natural sunlight in ages. David Thayer doesn't have much of a rep in this town except as a germaphobe and a shut in. You're wearing an old suit. Five, six years old. It's seen wear. That's good, convincing, but it's a custom job. Very good make, too. Saville Row tailor. Made out of fine wool. Not good. It would have set you back a pretty penny. I don't see lawyers in this town spending that much money and wearing the suit that often. Major cases. If a lawyer owned that suit, it'd look new. Wearing a suit that expensive enough to make it look worn equals money. So does the manicure. And the Italian loafers. But the real kicker was the poker face. You don't have one. So you need to start playing it strait with me. What is at stake, Mr. Thayer."
"Her family would put a stop to the union at even the breath of scandal," he whispered, "Hospitality is about reputation. The Prestons have connections with all the right people. They have the power to make the Idlewilde a national name. They could also destroy it with a word. I need this marriage, Mr. Leer."
"As I said earlier, Mr. Leer, I am here on a matter requiring discretion. A week ago, Mr. Thayer discovered several photographs of an intimate and compromising nature had been stolen by this individual." Kemp removed a manila file folder from his briefcase and passed it to Leer, who surveyed the contents rapidly.
"Why does Mr. Thayer think this Jossi fellow is responsible for stealing the photos?"
"Aside from my client, Stanford Jossi is the only other person who knew of the location of the photographs. They were kept carefully hidden."
"I see," Leer said, lighting his second cigarette of the conversation.
"It is paramount to my client that these photographs be recovered and destroyed. He fears," Kemp paused, his face blanching, "You may, perhaps, be aware that Mr. Thayer is to be married next month to the socialite Gwendolin Preston, heiress to the Preston canning fortune?"
Leer hadn't been, but he nodded anyway. The buzz from his earlier drink was evaporating, replaced by a dull ache behind his temples. "It's the so what that I don't get here, Mr. Thayer. Don't deny it. It's no use."
The man who had introduced himself as Kemp started and gasped. "How? It's impossible. How did you know?"
Leer rolled his eyes. "First off, everything of mine you've touched in this office, you handled through that fancy snot rag of yours. You're pale. Too pale. Your skin hasn't seen natural sunlight in ages. David Thayer doesn't have much of a rep in this town except as a germaphobe and a shut in. You're wearing an old suit. Five, six years old. It's seen wear. That's good, convincing, but it's a custom job. Very good make, too. Saville Row tailor. Made out of fine wool. Not good. It would have set you back a pretty penny. I don't see lawyers in this town spending that much money and wearing the suit that often. Major cases. If a lawyer owned that suit, it'd look new. Wearing a suit that expensive enough to make it look worn equals money. So does the manicure. And the Italian loafers. But the real kicker was the poker face. You don't have one. So you need to start playing it strait with me. What is at stake, Mr. Thayer."
"Her family would put a stop to the union at even the breath of scandal," he whispered, "Hospitality is about reputation. The Prestons have connections with all the right people. They have the power to make the Idlewilde a national name. They could also destroy it with a word. I need this marriage, Mr. Leer."
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