“What are the pictures like?” Fenner was standing near Granquist, his little pointed chin thrust toward Kells.
“Don’t be silly. They’re right out of the pocket of one of those frogs that work along the Rue de Rivoli.” Kells ran his fingers through his hair. “That’s not the point though. It’s not what they are, it’s who they’re of: Mister John R. Bellmann, the big boss of the reform administration, the Woman’s Club politician — at the house and in the intimate company of Jack Rose, gambler, Crown Prince of the Western Underworld and a couple of, well — questionable ladies.”
“And exactly what am I buying?”
“The negatives and one set of prints. My word that you’re getting all the negatives and that there are no other prints. The letters — and certain information as to what Bellmann and Rose talked about before they went under...”
The doorbell rang.
Fenner said: “That’ll be Dillon.” He went out into the hallway and came back with a sandy-haired, spectacled man. Both of them were holding their hands above their shoulders in the conventional gesture of surprise. Two men whom Kells had never seen before came in behind them. One, the most striking, was rather fat and his small head stuck out of a stiff collar, his tie was knotted to stick straight out, stiffly from the opening in his collar. He held a short blunt revolver in his hand.
The fat man said: “Go see if the tall one has got anything in his pockets.”
The other man went to Kells. He was a gray-faced nondescript young man in a tightly belted raincoat. He went through Kells’ pockets very carefully and when he had finished, said: “Sit down.”
Dillon shifted his weight from one foot to the other and the fat man, who was almost directly behind him, raised the revolver and brought the muzzle down hard on the back of his head. Dillon grunted and his knees gave away and he slumped down softly to the floor.
The fat man giggled quietly, nervously. He said: “That’s one down. Every little bit helps.”