By way of a reply he took out a case from his pocket. I saw that it was bulging over with banknotes, which confirmed me in my conviction both that he was actually an emissary of the Minister of Police and that I could have demanded an additional thousand francs without fear of losing the business.
“I’ll give you five hundred on account,” he said as he licked his ugly thumb preparatory to counting out the money before me.
“Make it a thousand,” I retorted; “and call it ‘additional,’ not ‘on account.’”
He tried to argue.
“I am not keen on the business,” I said with calm dignity, “so if you think that I am asking too much—there are others, no doubt, who would do the work for less.”
It was a bold move. But it succeeded. Leroux laughed and shrugged his shoulders. Then he counted out ten hundred-franc notes and laid them out upon the desk. But before I could touch them he laid his large bony hands over the lot and, looking me straight between the eyes, he said with earnest significance:
“English files are worth as much as twenty francs apiece in the market.”
“I know.”
“Fournier Frères would not take the risks which they are doing for a consignment of less than ten thousand.”
“I doubt if they would,” I rejoined blandly.