“Or don’t you smoke?” asked Mannering.
“Well, I don’t mind, boss. . . .” The man was confused, unable to make head or tail of this sudden geniality.
“Nice of you. Now, George” — Mannering went closer to his man and looked at him steadily — “I want the truth. Do you know what that is ?”
“I — kin make a guess, mister.” Obviously the bruiser was bewildered, but he was genuinely thankful for the cigarette, which he stuck between his lips. Mannering gravely offered him a lighter.
“Excellent,” he said, although whether he was referring to the cigarette or the other’s promise to try to find the truth was not obvious. “Now I know why you called, but I still want to know what you’ve taken.”
“But I ain’t . . .”
“Don’t forget that guess, George!”
The man swallowed hard at the wrong moment. Tobacco-smoke and oxygen mixed badly, and he choked, going red in the face and bending half-double.
“You are in the wars,” murmured Mannering sympathetically.
He waited for the fit of coughing to pass, and then repeated his question. After a moment’s hesitation the pug took a package from his pocket and handed it to his captor. The latter unwrapped two slim books, and whistled when he saw them. They were the last things he had expected.
“And he told you to take my bank pass-books, did he?” His voice was hard again.
“Yus.”
“And you looked at them?”
“I ain’t, mister, I ain’t, I swear. I wouldn’t understand them things if I did. I . . .”
“Ain’t,” said Mannering. He scowled. “You have.”
“But I . . .”
“I know. You ain’t. But you have, George. Just think a minute now. You looked at them, and one had four figures and the other four or five. You’re not sure which. You just glanced at them when I came in. Isn’t that so ?”
The pug’s eyes glistened.
“I — I git you, mister.”
“You’d better. Tell Mr Septimus Lee that: one book four figures, the other four or five. If you don’t — and I shall have little difficulty in finding whether you do or not — if you don’t, George, I shall whisper to Septimus the single word “Rosa”. You still get me?”
“I swear, mister . . .”
“So you don’t go to Sunday School, George ? Well, well. Now run along, will you? I want to think.”
If he spoke the truth, however, he derived little pleasure from his thoughts. He had convinced himself that the best thing to do was to let the burglar go, but as he pondered over the affair he realised that Lee was clever indeed. The Jew had not expected to get the pearls back, but he had tried to satisfy himself about the state of Mannering’s bank-balance.
Mannering was still flushed with his victory over the Jew, but he realised that the other was dangerous, more dangerous perhaps than the police. The one thing to do, he told himself, was to visit Lee; probably nothing else would be so convincing. He would stick to his promise: he would not tell Lee that the pug had mentioned the Rosas; but there was nothing to prevent him from putting two and two together after recognising the man as Lee’s chauffeur.
CHAPTER TEN
“I OWE YOU AN APOLOGY, MR MANNERING. I OFFER IT.”
“I owe you,” grunted John Mannering, “a beating up, brother to the one I handed out to that darned chauffeur of yours. Yes, I saw him outside as I came in. His nose is very sore, and I think you . . .”
You are not going to ask me to believe,” said Septimus Lee suavely, “that you will offer physical violence to a man so much older than yourself, Mr Mannering? I repeat, I offer you my apology. If you think deeply you will realise that it was a very natural thing for me to suspect . . .”
“Not unless you were a . . .”
Mannering broke off, and coloured. He did it well and a peculiar little smile hovered round Septimus Lee’s thin lips.
“You weren’t going to say “crook”, Mr Mannering? Such an awkward word, and — well, your interest in the Rosa pearls would have admitted a very strange construction, wouldn’t it? From the police, I mean, or even your friends.”
Mannering rubbed his chin in apparent agitation.
“Ye-es,” he admitted. He frowned. “All the same, I’ll make sure it’s the last business I ever do with you, Lee.”
“To my
Mannering glared at him for a moment, and then turned away, opening the door before the clerk could arrive. Septimus Lee smiled and sighed; his conviction, as Mannering went out, was that he had made a mistake about the man.
