Druse stared at him silently for perhaps a minute, finally smiled, said: “Before.”
Crandall sucked noisily at his cigar. “Then, if you believe me” — he glanced at the derringer — “what’s the point?”
“The point is that if I didn’t believe you, you’d be in an, awfully bad spot.”
Crandall nodded, grinned weakly.
“The point,” Druse went on, “is that you’re still in an awfully bad spot because no one else will believe you.”
Crandall nodded again. He leaned back and took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabbed at his face.
“I know a way out of it.” Druse moved his hand, let the derringer hang by the trigger-guard from his forefinger. “Not because I like you particularly, nor because I think you particularly deserve it — but because it’s right. I can turn up the man who really murdered her — if we can get back the rubies — the real rubies. And I think I know where they are.”
Crandall was leaning far forward, his face very alive and interested.
“I want you to locate the best peterman we can get.” Druse spoke in a very low voice, watched Crandall intently. “We’ve got to open a safe — I think it’ll be a safe — out on Long Island. Nothing very difficult — there’ll probably be servants to handle but nothing more serious than that.”
Crandall said: “Why can’t I do it?” He smiled a little. “I used to be in the box business, you know — before I straightened up and got myself a joint. That’s the reason I took the fake rubies myself — not to let anyone else in on it.”