Part 62 (2/2)
”Spies? I don't know. We're on a salary. We get a big bonus for every letter we find on the carpet----” He winked at Curfoot and relighted his cigar.
”Say,” said the latter, ”it's like a creeping joint. It's a panel game, Ben----”
”It's politics like they play 'em in Albany, only it's amba.s.sadors and kinks we trim, not corporations.”
”_We_ can't do it! What the h.e.l.l do we know about kinks and attaches?”
”No; Weishelm, Breslau and Kestner do that. We lay for the attaches or spin or deal or act handy at the bar and buffet with homesick Americans. No; the fine work--the high-up stuff, is done by Breslau and Weishelm. And I guess there's some fancy skirts somewhere in the game. But they're silent partners; and anyway Weishelm manages that part.”
Curfoot, one lank knee over the other, swung his foot thoughtfully to and fro, his ratty eyes lost in dreamy revery. Brandes tossed his half-consumed cigar out of the open window and set fire to another.
Stull waited for Curfoot to make up his mind. After several minutes the latter looked up from his cunning abstraction:
”Well, Ben, put it any way you like, but we're just plain political spies. And what the h.e.l.l do they hand us over here if we're pinched?”
”I don't know. What of it?”
”Nothing. If there's good money in it, I'll take a chance.”
”There is. Quint backs us. When we get 'em coming----”
”Ah,” said Doc with a wry face, ”that's all right for the cards or the wheel. But this pocket picking----”
”Say; that ain't what I mean. It's like this: Young Fitznoodle of the Emba.s.sy staff gets soused and starts out lookin' for a quiet game. We furnish the game. We don't go through his pockets; we just pick up whatever falls out and take shorthand copies. Then back go the letters into Fitznoodle's pocket----”
”Yes. Who reads 'em first?”
”Breslau. Or some skirt, maybe.”
”What's Breslau?”
”Search _me_. He's a Dutchman or a Roos.h.i.+an or some sort of Dodo. What do you care?”
”I don't. All right, Ben. You've got to show me; that's all.”
”Show you what?”
”Spot cas.h.!.+”
”You're in when you handle it?”
”If you show me real money--yes.”
”You're on. I'll cash a cheque of Quint's for you at Monroe's soon as we hit the asphalt! And when you finish counting out your gold nickels put 'em in your pants and play the game! Is that right?”
”Yes.”
They exchanged a wary handshake; then, one after another, they leaned back in their seats with the air of honest men who had done their day's work.
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