“Pete — who?” Maurer asked sharply.
“Pete Weiner. He’s okay. He hasn’t hit before, but he’s got to start some time.”
“Is he the guy with the birth-mark?” Maurer asked frowning.
“That’s him. He can talk good. His old man was a minister. We want a guy who can get into her apartment without her making a noise. Pete can do that. If he slips up, Moe can take over, but he won’t slip up. He’s keen.”
“I don’t like using a guy with a birth-mark,” Maurer said. “He’s too easily spotted.”
“I’ve got no one else who could get into the apartment. I don’t know the setup. If I had a little more time so I could case the joint I wouldn’t use him. As soon as he’s done the job, I’ll get him out of town. There won’t be any kick back.”
“There’d better not be,” Maurer said grimly.
A tap sounded on the door and Dutch Feiner, who looked after the club when Seigel was otherwise occupied, came in. He was a big, red-faced man with blond hair and hard ice-grey eyes.
“What is it?” Maurer said impatiently.
“There’s a dame just come in, Mr. Maurer. I thought you should know. Seems to me she’s Conrad’s wife. I may be wrong. She was in the other night, and I thought her face seemed familiar. I’m pretty sure now that’s who she is.”