It's about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I'm wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I'm neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I don't care who knows it. I'm everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I'm calling on four million dollars.