“You are talking about Mr. Bangs!”
“Lancelot Bangs—that’s him.”
“What has he done?”
“Him? What ho! Oh, I say! Blime if the bloody blighter hain’t a bootlegger!” Here George became a trifle confused in his British, but what does Gibeon know of distinctions between Whitechapel and the Hotel Cecil?
Carmel was alert at once. This touched the business in hand. “A bootlegger. You mean he is selling whisky?”
“Is and has been.... Hain’t bothered much with photographs for a long spell back. Makes his livin’ that way. It’s how he can afford them handsome cravats from the city.”
“You’re sure?”
“Take my oath to it in court. I’ve heard and saw. I’ve tasted out of a bottle.”
Here was something tangible at last, a hand on a minor tentacle of the affair, but, if clung to and followed diligently, it must lead sometime to the octopus head.
“Where does he get it?” Carmel asked.