A door to an inner room burst open and Norman Z. Moody emerged. He was about five foot five and must have weighed three hundred pounds. He rolled as he walked, reminding Judd of an animated Buddha. He had a round, jovial face with wide, guileless, pale blue eyes. He was totally bald and his head was egg-shaped. It was impossible to guess his age.
“Mr. Stevenson?” Moody greeted him.
“Dr. Stevens,” Judd said.
“Sit down, sit down.” Buddha with a Southern drawl.
Judd looked around for a seat. He removed a pile of old body-building and nudist magazines from a scrofulous-looking leather armchair with strips torn out of it, and gingerly sat down.
Moody was lowering his bulk into an oversized rocking chair. “Well, now! What can I do for you?”
Judd knew that he had made a mistake. Over the phone he had carefully given Moody his full name. A name that had been on the front page of every New York newspaper in the last few days. And he had managed to pick the only private detective in the whole city who had never even heard of him. He cast about for some excuse to walk out.
“Who recommended me?” Moody prodded.
Judd hesitated, not wanting to offend him. “I got your name out of the yellow pages.”
Moody laughed. “I don’t know what I’d do without the yellow pages,” he said. “Greatest invention since corn liquor.” He gave another little laugh.
Judd got to his feet. He was dealing with a total idiot. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time, Mr. Moody,” he said. “I’d like to think about this some more before I…”
“Sure, sure. I understand,” Moody said. “You’ll have to pay me for the appointment, though.”
“Of course,” Judd said. He reached in his pocket and pulled out some bills. “How much is it?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“Fifty—?” Judd swallowed angrily, peeled off some bills and thrust them in Moody’s hand. Moody counted the money carefully.
“Thanks a lot,” Moody said. Judd started toward the door, feeling like a fool. “Doctor…”
Judd turned. Moody was smiling at him benevolently, tucking the money into the pocket of his waistcoat. “As long as you’re stuck for the fifty dollars,” he said mildly, “you might as well sit down and tell me what your problem is. I always say that nothin’ takes more weight off than gettin’ things off your chest.”
The irony of it, coming from this silly fat man, almost made Judd laugh. Judd’s whole life was devoted to listening to people get things off their chests. He studied Moody a moment. What could he lose? Perhaps talking it out with a stranger would help. Slowly he went back to his chair and sat down.
“You look like you’re carryin’ the weight of the world, Doc. I always say that four shoulders are better than two.”
Judd was not certain how many of Moody’s aphorisms he was going to be able to stand.
Moody was watching him. “What brought you here? Women, or money? I always say if you took away women and money, you’d solve most of the world’s problems right there.” Moody was eyeing him, waiting for an answer.
“I—I think someone is trying to kill me.”
Blue eyes blinked. “You think?”
Judd brushed the question aside. “Perhaps you could give me the name of someone who specializes in investigating that kind of thing.”
“I certainly can,” Moody said. “Norman Z. Moody. Best in the country.”
Judd sighed in despair.
“Why don’t you tell me about it, Doc?” Moody suggested. “Let’s see if the two of us can’t sort it out a little.”
Judd had to smile in spite of himself. It sounded so much like himself. Just lie down and say anything that comes into your mind. Why not? He took a deep breath and, as concisely as possible, told Moody the events of the past few days. As he spoke, he forgot that Moody was there. He was really speaking to himself, putting into words the baffling things that had occurred. He carefully said nothing to Moody about his fears for his own sanity. When Judd had finished, Moody regarded him happily.