Silverstein looked as though he’d like to eat me. They say he sells policy slips as well as hats, and I reckoned on that to make him afraid.
“What Brady?” he says.
“Old King Brady, the detective,” says I.
“Mein freund, how I can be ogspeged to know efery hat vat I sells. Who I sells him to—huh?”
“Mr. Brady don’t want to know who you sell all your hats to,” I say, “he only wants to know who you sold this one to.”
Silverstein took the hat and examined it closely.
“Vell, I tells you,” he said, slowly. “I onderstand vat Mr. Brady vants. Dis hat I sells to an old gustomer vat’s named Camm.”
“Yes, yes. But where did you deliver it; or did he take it with him when he bought it?”
“I send him,” says Silverstein. It was like pulling teeth to get a word out of him, but I saw that sooner or later he meant to tell.
“Where did you send the hat?”