all the details. My secretary will supply you with a tape-recorder.'
'What do you want it for . . . to give to the police?' Garry said. 'You have the ring . . . that's all you're getting from me,' and he went out, walked past the blonde secretary without looking at her and hurried to the elevator, his one thought now being to get back to Toni.
Shalik stared at the closed door, thought for a moment, then shrugged. Perhaps after all, it was better not to know too much about what happened, he decided. Pity about Gaye. He knew she had no relations. There would be no awkward questions asked. She had come into his life, served a useful purpose, and now she had gone. It was a nuisance, but no woman was irreplaceable.
He picked up the ring and examined it. Holding it in his left hand, he reached for his telephone and dialled a number.
The diamonds were nice, he thought and ran his forefinger over the cluster, then started as something of needle sharpness cut his finger. He dropped the ring, frowning, and conveyed his bleeding finger to his mouth.
So the Borgia ring still scratched, he thought. The poison, of course, would have long dried up: after all the ring was nearly four hundred years old. He looked at his finger. Quite a nasty scratch. He continued to suck his finger as he listened to the burr-burr-burr of the telephone bell, thinking how pleased his client would be to get the ring back.
The End
