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The insolent purr of his musical voice whipped color into Kronberg's cheeks. Abruptly he shifted his position and glared stonily. "Venice," murmured Carl impudently, "Venice called them bravi; here in America we brutally call them gun-men, but honestly, Kronberg, in all respect and confidence, you really haven't brains and originality enough for a clever professional murderer.
Prior to leaving his office Leon had cashed Aaron Kronberg's check for seven hundred and fifty dollars, and the money, in bills of large denomination, was turned over to Mosha Kronberg, who tucked them carefully away in his breast pocket. "Well, Aaron," he said after the operation was completed, "I guess I'll be going back to Madison Street." "Wait; I'll go along with you," Aaron cried.
Kronberg's claim of title I mean his immediate vendor was the only surviving collateral of an intestate," he said. "That's where you make a big mistake," Uncle Mosha interrupted. "The feller which I bought the house from was a salesman for a shirt concern." Feldman glared at Uncle Mosha and was about to crush him with a flood of law Latin when the door opened.
"It's a feller by the name Mawruss Perlmutter." Aaron Kronberg's pallor gave way to a flood of crimson, and for a moment he choked incoherently as he gazed at Uncle Mosha in amazement. "Why, that feller Perlmutter is a friend of Alex," he gasped at length. "Sure, I know," Uncle Mosha replied; "but even if he is a friend of Alex his money ain't counterfeit."
I imagine you're a blunderer anyway," he added impudently; "your fingers are too thick. If you hadn't been so anxious to learn when Wherry was likely to go," guessed Carl suddenly, "you wouldn't have listened and creaked at the keyhole last night. And more than likely you'd have gotten that creak over on me to-night." Kronberg's shifting glance roved desperately to the doorway.
He rose smiling, though his eyes were dangerously brilliant. "Just when," said he lazily, "did you steal the paper I found in the candlestick? It's gone " He had struck fire from the stone man at last. A hopeless, hunted look flamed up in Kronberg's eyes and died away. "Ah!" guessed Carl keenly, "so you're in some muddle there, too, eh?" Kronberg stared sullenly at the dusty floor.
They're crude, Kronberg, and homemade, but in time they'll do the work." Kronberg's face grew colorless as death itself as his mind leaped to the torture of the day before.
"After all," he said, "I might get a good price for the house anyway." From Mosha Kronberg's tenement house on Madison Street to the cloak and suit district, at Nineteenth Street and Fifth Avenue, is less than two miles as the crow flies, but Morris Perlmutter's journey uptown was accomplished in less direct fashion.
"Well, Abe," Morris Perlmutter remarked as they sat in their showroom ten days after the events above noted, "I did mix up in Alex Kronberg's family matters and, with all your croaking, what is the result? Alex has got a good partner; Uncle Mosha has got a good home, and ourselves we got a good order for three thousand dollars, which otherwise we wouldn't got at all."
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