“Gun?” Brant repeated. “What gun?”
George had never told anyone about the Luger. It was not the kind of thing you did tell anyone about. He had no licence for it. If the police heard about it, there would be trouble. They would most likely take it from him.
But he told Brant. There was nothing else he could do. It was either that, or loss of face.
“What do you think” he said gruffly. “I’ve had a gun for years. Brought it back from the States; only it’s not a thing I talk about. The police don’t stand for that kind of thing.”
“A gun,” Brant said, making it sound tremendously important. “So you’ve got a gun?”
“Had it for years,” George repeated, uneasy, yet pleased with the impression he had made. “It saves a lot of talking. I’m not much of a one to talk. I don’t need to talk with a gun.”
“I didn’t know,” Brant said, and his hardness and confidence somehow didn’t seem to matter any more to George.
“I don’t mess around with razors,” George went on, his voice sounding strange even to him. “That’s small-time stuff.”
“You can’t get guns here,” Brant said mildly, almost apologetically. “But we scared the rat, didn’t we?”
“We scared him all right,” George returned, losing his ill- temper now that Brant was acknowledging his share in Robinson’s defeat. “I’ll never forget his face when you produced that sticker,” he went on, feeling a generosity that compelled him to give the lion’s share of the exploit to Brant.