“Not as bad as it mighta been,” was the retort. “Jerry Marcus got the works that night he had Burke in the taxicab. Guess it was the same guy that poked Bugs Lakey in the jaw—”
“That’s immaterial, Macklin,” said Palermo. “The point is this. I’ve paid you pretty well, haven’t I?”
“Yeah.”
“Even when I had to go out of my way to get the money,” added Palermo smoothly. “All I have asked is that you provide good men, who could do the jobs assigned them. Only in one instance have I ordered you to do a job yourself.”
“I did it, didn’t I?” retorted Macklin. “Nobody ever wised up that Harriman wasn’t a suicide. I didn’t get that jewel you wanted. Harriman didn’t have it on him.
“You figured that maybe he had given it to that guy Horace Chatham, and I had a couple of men trailing Chatham, until he bumped off Wilkinson and disappeared.”
“Quite right,” agreed Palermo. “We have dropped Chatham, now. He didn’t have the purple sapphire. I believe I know where it is at present, and I can acquire it myself.
“No, Macklin, I have no fault to find with your work until recently. But this double failure in the simple matter of eliminating a newspaperman — namely Clyde Burke — may prove to be serious. In fact, it is hampering some of my most important plans.”
“Why?” Macklin’s voice was challenging. “Whadda you care about a guy like Burke? He ain’t got anything on you, has he?”
“Nothing of consequence.”