“All right. But I’d still like to know what you’re doing here.”
“I told you. I want a little private chat. That’s all.” “What about?”
“I’ll tell you.” Arthur put his gun away inside his jacket and produced a packet of Greek cigarettes. He offered them to George. “Smoke, Mr. Carey?”
George produced a packet of his own. “No, thanks. I’ll stick to these.”
“Chesterfields, eh? Long time no see. Mind if I try one?”
“Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” He fussed about the business of giving George a light like an over-anxious host. Then he lit his own cigarette and drew on it appreciatively. “Nice tobacco,” he said. “Very nice.”
George sat down on the edge of the bed. “Look,” he said impatiently, “what exactly is this all about? You break into my room, go through my business papers, threaten me with a gun, and then say you only want a private chat. All right, so we’re chatting. Now what?”
“Mind if I sit down, Mr. Carey?”
“Do anything you like, but for Pete’s sake come to the point.”