His second-floor office at 35 Powell Street was small, crowded by a big golden oak rolltop and a couple of massive fumed oak chairs with brown Spanish-grained leather upholstery. The three unwindowed walls were outfitted with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with dark-bound lawbooks in enough disarray to suggest use, not show. Epstein was on his feet behind the desk, taking in Hammett with shrewd sparrow eyes. He was a small dark man in a brown suit to match his eyes; a gold watch chain glinted across his spare belly. His big nose dominated the other features. ‘Take off your coat, Mr Hawkins. Heat builds up here, afternoons.’ Hammett nodded his thanks and draped his overcoat across the back of one of the leather chairs. He sat down in the other. Beside the desk, within reach of both men, was a walnut smoking stand with brass fittings. At its foot was an old-fashioned brass cuspidor. On the wooden coatrack in the corner was the lawyer’s melton Chesterfield and fashionable beaver fedora.
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