“I buy a dozen pieces maybe—vot's dot your business?”
“My business will come later. What I want to know is whether you've got a piece with a hole in it—black, soft, and squashy—with a frill—a flounce, they call it—and I want to tell you right here that it will be a good deal better if you keep a decent tongue in your head and stop puttin' on lugs. It's business with me.”
Masie had crept up and stood listening, wondering at the stranger's rough way of talking. So had the tramp, whom Kitty had loaned to Otto for a few hours to help move some of the heavier furniture. He seemed to be especially interested in what was taking place, for he kept edging up the closer, dusting the Colonial sideboard close to which Kling and the man were standing, his ears stretched to their utmost, in order to miss no word of the interview.
“Vell, if it's business, and you don't mean noddin, dot's anudder ting,” replied Kling, in a milder tone, “maybe den I tell you. Run avay, Masie, I got someting private to say. Dot's right. You go talk to Mrs. Gossburger—Yes,” he added, as the child disappeared, “I did buy a big lace shawl like dot.”
Pickert's grin covered half his face. He could get along now without a search-warrant. “And have you got it now?”
“Yes, I got it now.”
The grin broadened—the triumphant grin of a boy when he hears the click of a trap and knows the quarry is inside.
“Can I see it?”
“No, you can't see it.” The man's cool persistency again irritated him. “I buy dot for a present and I—Look here vunce! Vat you come in here for an' ask dose questions? I never see you before. Dis is my busy time. Now you put yourselluf outside my place.”
The detective made a step forward, turned his back on the rest of the shop, unbuttoned his outer coat, lifted the lapel of the inner one, and uncovered his shield.