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Being wholly without imagination, the confidential clerk was impervious to surprise or shock. This was fortunate, for otherwise, his employment as practical aide to Average Jones would probably have driven him into a madhouse. He now ran his long, thin, clerkly hands through his long, thin, clerkly hair. "Ramson, down on Fulton Street, will have them, if any one has," he said presently.
The confidential clerk lingered, looking uncomfortable. "Anything from yesterday's lot, sir?" "Haven't looked them over yet." "Or day before's?" "Haven't taken those up either." "Pardon me, Mr. Jones., but are you ill, sir?" "No," snapped Average Jones. "Ramson is inquiring whether he shall ship more beetles.
He managed to keep it out of the newspapers but he had to pay a stiff fine." "That might be worth looking up, too," ruminated Average Jones thoughtfully. He turned to his telephone in answer to a ring. "All right, come, in, Simpson," he said. The confidential clerk appeared. "Ramson says that regular black beetles are out of season, sir," he reported.
The second in merit, one Ramson, had strangled 608 people. The third, it is true, could only claim about 500, but he had reached this figure in thirty years, and had made a record of 25 murders in one year. Others had to their credit 377, 340 and 264 assassinations respectively, after which one dropped from these heights to figures of twenty, ten or even only five annual murders in honour of Kali.
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