Simon lighted a cigarette as if it were fragile. It was curious how coincidences always had to be repeated, and when your luck was coming in you just had to let it alone.
“You mean Trilby Andrews,” he said calmly.
“Yeah. She was under age. He ditched her an’ she took a sleep.”
“That’s just gossip.”
“That’s what you think. But I coulda proved it.”
“Only you didn’t,” Simon said carefully, “because he had something even better on you.”
He had a picture already of the methods and associations of the late Mr Ufferlitz which made that kind of shot in the dark look almost as good as the chance of hitting a wall from inside a room, but he was not quite prepared for the response that he got this time.
Flane put down an empty glass and turned and took hold of him by the lapels of his coat. The alcoholic slackness was crushed down in his face as if with a great effort of will, and his eyes were cold even through the obvious bleariness of his vision. For the first time since Simon had set eyes on him he really looked as if he could have been tough. He didn’t raise his voice.
“Who told you that?” he said.
Simon had played this kind of poker all his life. Now he had to be good. He didn’t move. The bartender was down at the far end of the bar, polishing glasses while he looked over a magazine, and he didn’t seem to have been paying any attention for some time.