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"Sure," Feinstein replied, and no sooner had Abe disappeared into the hall than he drew a morning paper from his pocket and settled down to his duties as keeper for the Federal receiver by selecting the most comfortable chair in the room and cocking up his feet against the side of Rifkin's desk. "Well, Abe," Morris cried as his partner entered the store half an hour later, "I give you right."
"Maybe there's something you would like to buy at the receiver's sale next week." Abe handed Feinstein a cigar, and together they went into Rifkin's loft. "He's got some fine fixtures, ain't it?" Abe said as he gazed upon the mahogany and plate-glass furnishings of Rifkin's office.
Abe stopped short and shook the sticky hand of the bill-poster. "How d'ye do, Mr. Feinstein?" he said. "Ah, good morning, Mr. Potash," Feinstein cried in his employer's best tone and manner. "What's the matter? Is Rifkin in trouble?" "Oh, no," Feinstein replied ironically. "Rifkin ain't in trouble; his creditors is in trouble, Mr. Potash.
What's more, Abe, I'm going to get Feinstein on the 'phone right away and find out who did buy 'em." He went to the telephone immediately and rang up Henry D. Feldman's office. "Hallo, Mr. Feinstein," he said, after the connection had been made. "This is Mawruss Perlmutter, of Potash & Perlmutter. You know them fixtures what H. Rifkin had it?" "I sure do," Feinstein replied.
"They wouldn't bring nothing at the receiver's sale, anyhow," Feinstein replied, "even though they are pretty near new." "They must have cost him a pretty big sum, ain't it?" Abe said. "They didn't cost him a cent," Feinstein answered, "because he ain't paid a cent for 'em. Flaum & Bingler sold 'em to him, and they're one of the petitioning creditors.
If he got away with a cent he got away with fifty thousand dollars." "Don't nobody know where he skipped to?" "Only his wife," Feinstein replied, "and she left home yesterday. Some says she went to Canada and some says to Mexico; but they mostly goes to Brooklyn, and who in blazes could find her there?" Abe nodded solemnly. "But come inside and give a look around," Feinstein said hospitably.
Feinstein pulled his hat over his eyes and, resting his cigar on the top of Rifkin's desk with the lighted end next to the wood, he drew Abe toward the rear of the office. "Leave that to me," he said mysteriously.
"You've got to hustle if you want them fixtures," he said. "I bet yer I got to hustle," Abe said, his eyes fixed on the marred surface of the desk, "for if you're going to smoke many more cigars around here them fixtures won't be no more good to nobody." "That don't harm 'em none," Feinstein replied.
"That's all right, too," Feinstein rejoined; "but there was one dealer in here this morning already. As soon as the rest of 'em get on to this here failure they'll be buzzing around them fixtures like flies in a meat market, and maybe I won't be able to put it through for you at all." "I tell you what I'll do," Abe said. "I'll go right down to the store and I'll be back here at two o'clock."
It was now Morris' turn to change color, and his face assumed a sickly hue of green. "How do you know that?" he gasped. "Because I was in Rifkin's old place when that lowlife Feinstein, what works for Henry D. Feldman, had charge of it after the failure; and I seen Feinstein strike them matches and put his seegar on the top from the desk."
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