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"Why isn't it?" she countered. "Your door's marked Tri-State Detective Agency, Jefferson Davis Rand, Investigation and Protection. Well, I want to know how much the collection's worth, and who'll pay the closest to it. That's investigation, isn't it? And I want protection from being swindled. And don't tell me you can't do it.
"You don't understand," Dunmore told her. "You've probably heard somebody say what the collection's worth, and you never stopped to realize that it's only worth that to a dealer, who can sell it item by item. You can't expect ..." "We can expect a lot more than ten thousand dollars," Nelda retorted. "In fact, we can expect more than that from Rivers.
You aren't my client, and I'm not answerable to you." "Well, you carry my authorization," Goode supported him. "I think I have a right to know what's being done." "As far as the collection's concerned, yes. As for the Rivers murder, or my armored-car service, or any other business of the Tri-State Agency, no."
Pierre and Karen were looking at each other in blank misery; their dream of establishing themselves in the arms business had blown up in their faces. "Oh, he's talking through his hat!" Cabot declared. "He just hopes we'll lose interest, and then he'll buy what's left of the collection for a song." "Maybe he knows the collection's been robbed," Trehearne suggested. "That would let him out, later.
He was almost visibly wrestling with mental arithmetic, and at the same time trying to keep any hint of his notion of the collection's real value out of his face. "Well, I doubt if I could raise that much," he said. "Might I ask who's making this offer?" "You might; I'm afraid I couldn't tell you. You wouldn't want me to publish your own offer broadcast, would you?" "I think I can guess.
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