Evidently the interval had been filled with thoughts of the men from Curzon Street.
“Monty says they’re just bluff, but I’m not so sure that Monty tells me all he thinks. He’s so scared that he told me to call and see them, just because they gave him an order—which isn’t like Monty. They’ve killed people, haven’t they?”
Mirabelle nodded.
“And got away with it? They must be clever.” Joan’s admiration was dragged from her. “Where do they get their money?”
That was always an interesting matter to Joan.
When the girl explained, she was really impressed. That they could kill and get away with it, was wonderful; that they were men of millions, placed them in a category apart.
“They’ll never find you here,” said Joan. “There’s nobody living knows about this vault. There used to be eight men working here, sorting monkey hides, and every one of them’s dead. Monty told me. He said this place is below the canal level, and Oberzohn can flood it in five minutes. Monty thinks the old man had an idea of running a slush factory here.”
“What is a slush factory?” asked Mirabelle, open-mouthed.
“Phoney—snide—counterfeit. Not English, but Continental work. He was going to do that if things had gone really bad, but of course you make all the difference.”
Mirabelle put down her cup.