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Updated: June 7, 2025
He looked about for some place to sit. There was not a chair in the room. "Because he intends to kill you," answered the woman, squatting on the orange-covered divan. "I wish he 'd come and try," Blake devoutly retorted. "He will not come," she told him. "It will be done from the dark. I could have done it. But Ottenheim said no."
Blake was still watching the woman when the door behind him was slowly opened; a head was thrust in, and as quietly withdrawn again. Blake dropped his right hand to his coat pocket and moved further along the wall, facing the woman. There was nothing of which he stood afraid: he merely wished to be on the safe side. "Well, what word 'll I take back to Ottenheim?" he demanded.
He was wondering if Ottenheim had the same hold on her that the authorities had on Ottenheim, the ex-forger who enjoyed his parole only on condition that he remain a stool-pigeon of the high seas. He pondered what force he could bring to bear on her, what power could squeeze from those carmine and childish lips the information he must have.
The blue-painted eyes were studying him. "It will be worth four thousand pounds, in English gold," she announced. Blake took a step or two nearer her. "Is that the message Ottenheim told you to give me?" he demanded. His face was red with anger. "Then three thousand pounds," she calmly suggested, wriggling her toes into a fallen sandal. Blake did not deign to speak.
"And Ottenheim said you were to work with me in this," declared Blake, putting two and two together. The woman shrugged a white shoulder. "Have you any money?" she asked. She put the question with the artlessness of a child. "Mighty little," retorted Blake, still studying the woman from where he stood.
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