“Any luck yet?”
“What do you mean?”
“My watchdogs. Your spies. They won’t find the bonds, Hat-ton. Better call ‘em off. Why make the poor devils do two jobs at once?”
“One job would be enough. Finding the evidence. If MacIlson drilled you, I wouldn’t be too unhappy.”
“Well, I’ll see you in court,” Vanning said. “You’re prosecuting Watson, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Are you waiving scop?”
“On the jurors? Sure. I’ve got this case in the bag.”
“That’s what you think,” Hatton said, and broke the beam.
Chuckling, Vanning donned his topcoat, collected the guards, and headed for court. There was no sign of MacIlson— Vanning won the case, as he had expected. He returned to his offices, collected a few unimportant messages from the switchboard girl, and walked toward his private suite. As he opened the door, he saw the suedette suitcase on the, carpet in due corner.
He stopped, hand frozen on the latch. Behind him he could hear the heavy footsteps of the guards. Over his shoulder Vanning said, “Wait a minute,” and dodged into the office, slamming and locking the door behind him. He caught the tail end of a surprised question.