Hanan frowned self-consciously, twisted his mouth down at the corners. “That is, of course, impossible to—”
“Say another hundred and seventy-five.” Druse smiled easily. “That makes three hundred and fifty thousand. I work on a ten per cent basis — thirty-five thousand — one-third in advance.” He leaned back, still smiling easily. “Ten thousand will be sufficient as a retainer.”
Hanan was still frowning self-consciously. He said: “Done,” took a checkbook and fountain pen out of his pocket.
Druse went on: “If I fail in either purpose, I shall, of course, return your check.”
Hanan bobbed his head, made out the check in a minute, illegible scrawl and handed it across the table. Druse paid for the drinks, jotted down Hanan’s telephone number and the address of Mrs. Hanan’s apartment. They got up and went downstairs and out of the place; Druse told Hanan he would call him within an hour, got into a cab. Hanan watched the cab disappear in east-bound traffic, lighted a cigarette nervously and walked towards Madison Avenue.
Druse said: “Tell her I’ve come from Mister Hanan.”
The telephone operator spoke into the transmitter, turned to Druse. “You may go up — Apartment Three D.”
When, in answer to a drawled, “Come in,” he pushed open the door and went into the apartment, Catherine Hanan was standing near the center table, with one hand on the table to steady herself, the other in the pocket of her long blue robe. She was beautiful in the mature way that women who have lived too hard, too swiftly, are sometimes beautiful. She was very dark; her eyes were large, liquid, black and dominated her rather small, sharply sculptured face. Her mouth was large, deeply red, not particularly strong.
Druse bowed slightly, said: “How do you do.”
She smiled, and her eyes were heavy, nearly closed. “Swell-and you?”