Harry Brown’s vacant head ran the clear, cold, futile thought, He’s surprised. Whoever the man is, he expected anything but the hotel guest on his feet with an inquiring look and a visitor sitting in an armchair. “Mr. Curtis,” the giant said. He had a bass voice, rusty-sounding as if from disuse. “Everything all right?” “All right?” repeated Kurt Gresham. “Why, certainly, Mr. O’Brien. Come in.” The giant stepped further into the room and the millionaire reached around him and shut the door. “Why the pistol, Mr. O’Brien?” Gresham said. “Would you mind putting it away? I have a weak heart.” The giant looked foolish. Harry thought, He’s a wrestler, or an old-time fighter. The broken nose, the impossible spread of shoulder, the stupid little pig-eyes under the lumpy ridges of bone, the gorilla’s jaw … “Oh, Doctor,” said Kurt Gresham. “This is Mr. O’Brien, the Starhurst’s house detective. My doctor, Dr. Brown.” “Your doctor?” O’Brien said.
