Ferrari wriggled out of the armchair and stretched his thin, short arms.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” he said. “I think better in bed.” He paused to run his finger down his bony nose. “Did Maurer kill this woman?”
Gollowitz shrugged.
“I wouldn’t know. It’s not my business anyway.”
Ferrari moved about the room, his hands clasped behind his back.
“The Syndicate doesn’t like private killings.”
Gollowitz didn’t say anything.
“The Syndicate isn’t too pleased with Maurer anyway,” Ferrari said softly. “He’s getting a little too independent.”
Gollowitz felt a cold chill run up his spine, but he still didn’t say anything.
“Well, never mind,” Ferrari went on. “All that can be taken care of.” He looked sharply at Gollowitz. “Is Seigel a good man to have in this outfit?”