"Allow me!"
said the stranger politely. "I observe that your hand trembles a little."
It did. The Sergeant was excited. The stranger seemed to be touching on a
subject which always excited the Sergeant--to the point of hands
trembling, twitching, and itching.
"Have to pay for it, too! Thirty bob in curl-twisters for every ruddy
disc; that's the figure now, or thereabouts. What do they want to do
it for? What's your governor's game? Who, in short, is going to get
off with it?"
"What is it they does, the old blighter and Boomery (thus he pronounced
the name Beaumaroy), in London?"
"First to the stockbroker's, then to a bank or two, I've known it three
even; then a taxi down East, and a call at certain addresses. The bag's
with 'em, Sergeant, and at each call it gets heavier. I've seen it swell,
so to speak."
"Who in hell are you?" the Sergeant grunted huskily.
"Names later--after the usual guarantees of good faith."
The whole conversation, carried on in low tones, had passed under cover
of noisy mirth, snatches of song, banter, and gigglings; nobody paid heed
to the two men talking in a corner.
Pages:
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98