"Well, Fleck?" There was an edge of impatience in Irby's voice now. "Want to talk in the back booth, or down at headquarters?"
"The booth," Ray said. His voice didn't come out quite right. But he picked up his glass and started toward the rear of the tavern. And a sudden thought came and with it a sudden hope that this wasn't as bad a jam as he had feared. It wasn't a pinch—at least not yet. The cop—he must be a cop; he looked and acted like one—hadn't simply pinched him; he wanted to talk, and in private.
That meant Dolly hadn't simply called the police, given his name and description and reported the theft. She hadn't wanted the publicity, for obvious reasons. This Irby must be a friend of hers on the force—either a plain-clothes cop or a regular cop who was off duty when she called him. And she'd have told him she didn't want to make a complaint if she could get her stuff back without making one. Thank God, he thought, Fats Davis hadn't bought any of the stuff after all, and he still had it intact, ready to hand back. If he'd sold the ring for fifty they'd claim it was worth more and there'd still be trouble.
But, he thought as he slid into the booth, he'd let Irby talk first. He wouldn't make the mistake he'd made with Amico earlier by talking out of turn, admitting to having dragged down Connolly's thirty-buck bet when Sam-the-waiter's smaller bet was the only one Amico had known about. Just conceivably, although he didn't see how, this current deal didn't even concern the jewelry at all.
Irby slid in across from him, where Fats had sat only half an hour ago.
Irby said, "Keep your hands on top of the table, Fleck. The stuff's in your left pants pocket—you unconsciously put your hand over it while you were walking back to make sure it was still there. And I wouldn't want you to try to get any idea of ditching it here in the booth. I'd have to take you in right away if you tried that."
It was the jewelry then, all right. And there wasn't any use in his denying it—or of volunteering any information either. Ray Fleck just nodded. And kept his hands in sight.
Irby said, "All right, I'll put my cards on the table. Or my card." He took a card from the breast pocket of his coat and put it down in front of Ray. Mack Irby, Private Investigator. And an address and a phone number. "Put it in your pocket. You might want to use me sometime to get you out of a jam. But not this jam; I've already got a client. And you can guess who it is, without straining yourself."
Ray Fleck nodded again. And to avoid discussion and keep things moving he put the card into his own breast pocket.
"Meanwhile," Irby said, "don't let the fact that I'm a private detective and not a cop dazzle you into thinking I can't arrest you, or that I won't if I have to. I carry a deputy's badge, for one thing. And if I didn't I can still make a citizen's arrest if I find someone in the act of committing a crime. And you are; you're in possession of stolen property. And if you think I can't handle you—" He pulled back his coat far enough so Ray could see the butt of a flat automatic in a shoulder holster. "Just don't try to make a run for it."