“How small?” Ken said, an edge to his voice.
“Well, perhaps thirty dollars, perhaps thirty-five.”
Ken realized that if he agreed to pay Sweeting, there would be no end to it. He would be bled white. He had to take a stand. He had to think of Ann. He would probably need every dime he could lay hands on for his defence.
“I should only be buying time,” he said quietly. “The police could find me without your help. You had better tell them what you know. You’re getting nothing out of me.”
Sweeting had had many years’ experience of petty blackmailing. He was a little surprised that Ken should attempt to bluff, considering the dangerous position he was in, but he was quite prepared to accept Ken’s attitude for the moment. So many of his past victims had tried to bluff, but they had always toed the line in the end.
“Let’s be sensible about this, Mr. Holland. My evidence would send you to the chair. After all, I am the only witness who saw you leave the house at the time the police say she died. If I kept quiet…”
“You’re mistaken,” Ken said, getting to his feet. “Someone else saw me: the woman who lives on the ground floor. Your evidence is not so exclusive as you think.”
Sweeting stared up at him, taken aback.
“Now wait a moment, Mr. Holland. We mustn’t be too hasty about this. This woman doesn’t know who you are: I do. It would be stupid of you to sacrifice your life for a few dollars. Besides, you must think of your wife. Think how hurt she will be to learn what you have done.”
“We’ll leave my wife out of this!” Ken said savagely. “I’m not paying you a dime. Get out!”