"The sonofabitch bust my head open," Cokey argued. "Lemme get a piece of rope and put him out of my misery."
"Not yet, Cokey."
The Saint's expression was interested and sympathetic.
"After all, we do have to make up our minds about me," he murmured helpfully. "Cokey is just trying to be practical. Now, what are the possibilities? We could all just stand around here for ever, but one day we might get bored with our own conversation. Of course, you could always shoot me; but then one of the other apartments might hear it and get curious about the noise. You might take me for an old-fashioned ride; but that's kind of a luxury these days, what with the tire situation and gasoline rationing and everything."
"Or," said Varetti, in the same vein, "we might call the police again and give you back to them for breaking in here."
"That's quite an idea," Simon admitted. "But I was under the impression that this apartment belonged to a Miss Barbara Sinclair. Are you sure that you mightn't have to do a little awkward explaining about why you're here yourselves and how you got in?"
As bait, it was worth the casual try; but Varetti's greasy smile was toothily unchanged.
"I think you forget your position, Mr Templar. Yes, I am sure you do. I ask the questions. You answer them… I hope. If not, I shall have to ask Cokey to help you. And that wouldn't be nice. I'm afraid Cokey doesn't like you."
"I like him," Cokey said glitteringly. "I'll show you, Ricco. Just lemme tie a piece of rope around his neck and show you. He bust my head open, didn't he?"
"You see?" said Varetti. "He does like you. And there are plenty of things you ought to be telling us. Yes. Perhaps he has the right idea."