I was becoming impatient, when a furtive-looking individual entered from what had formerly been the bar. Brooks winked sidewise at us and I gathered that the new-comer was the redoubtable "Number 6," the operative of the Rascon Agency whom Brooks had located.
He cast his furtive eyes around and his glance caught Brooks, who nodded, beckoning him over to the table.
The former operative sidled over and sat down, eying us suspiciously, in spite of Brooks's effort to handle him with tact.
We fell into conversation, beginning on the weather and progressing to the usual topic of the evil times into which prohibition was throwing us.
Gradually Brooks led around to more intimate subjects and finally the name of Rascon was mentioned.
At once the former operative flew into a towering rage.
"Say," he ejaculated, "if I should tell you of all the crooked deals that fellow was in—"
He checked himself in spite of his anger, and at once a look of suspicion crossed his face as he glanced doubtfully at us. At least I felt there could be no question that the operative had really double-crossed Rascon. As to whether we might profit by it or not, that was another matter.
"Fair enough," interposed Kennedy, trying to reassure the fellow. "Now we're not friends of his exactly. To come right down to brass tacks," he added, lowering his voice, "this gentleman here tells me that you have something to sell. The question is—what do you want and how are you going to deliver the goods—I mean in the way that's safest for you, of course."
Kennedy was leaning over frankly toward the fellow. The operative's eyes narrowed and a look of low cunning came over his face. He looked about at the other tables, as though not quite sure of even those about him.