"I
had a notion--I might as well admit it--that you would have serious
objection to having your tracks cut by a jump-crossing at B and Water
streets." And for no reason in life except to justify himself and
inculcate in Pennington an impression that the latter was dealing
with a crafty and far-seeing mayor, Poundstone smiled boldly and
knowingly. "I repeat," he said, "that I did not put it in writing."
He leaned back nonchalantly and blew smoke at the ceiling.
"You oily rascal!" Pennington soliloquized. "You're a smarter man
than I thought. You're trying to play both ends against the middle."
He recalled the report of his private detective and the incident of
Ogilvy's visit to young Henry Poundstone's office with a small
leather bag; he was more than ever convinced that this bag had
contained the bribe, in gold coin, which had been productive of that
temporary franchise and the verbal understanding for its possible
extension.
"Ogilvy did business with you through your son Henry," he challenged.
Poundstone started violently. "How much did Henry get out of it?"
Pennington continued brutally.
"Two hundred and fifty dollars retainer, and not a cent more,"
Poundstone protested virtuously--and truthfully.
"You're not so good a business man as I gave you credit for being,"
the Colonel retorted mirthfully "Two hundred and fifty dollars! Oh,
Lord! Poundstone, you're funny.
Pages:
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343