“You’d better find out, boss,” he said. “He’ll fix you. As soon as I shout——”
“Cuccini——” Leon’s voice was gentle. The point of the long-bladed knife that he held to the man’s neck was indubitably sharp. Cuccini shrank back. “You will not shout. If you do, I shall cut your throat and spoil all these beautiful carpets—that is a genuine silken Bokhara, George. I haven’t seen one in ten years.” He nodded to the soft-hued rug on which George Manfred was standing. “What is the signal, Cuccini?” turning his attention again to the prisoner. “And what happens when you give the signal?”
“Listen,” said Cuccini, “that throat-cutting stuff don’t mean anything to me. There’s no third degree in this country, and don’t forget it.”
“You have never seen my ninety-ninth degree.” Leon smiled like a delighted boy. “Put something in his mouth, will you?”
One of the men tied a woollen scarf round Cuccini’s head.
“Lay him on the sofa.”
He was already bound hand and foot and helpless.
“Have you any wax matches? Yes, here are some.” Leon emptied a cut-glass container into the palm of his hand and looked blandly round at the curious company. “Now, gentlemen, if you will leave me alone for exactly five minutes, I will give Mr. Cuccini an excellent imitation of the persuasive methods of Gian Visconti, an excellent countryman of his, and the inventor of the system I am about to apply.”
Cuccini was shaking his head furiously. A mumble of unintelligible sounds came from behind the scarf.
“Our friend is not unintelligent. Any of you who say that Signor Cuccini is unintelligent will incur my severest displeasure,” said Leon.