"Well—I dunno—"
"And as for reason Number Three: I don't care to have this affair advertised. If the papers get hold of it they'll cook up a lot of silly details that'll excite the cupidity of every thief in the country, and make me more trouble than I care to—ah—contemplate."
Hickey's eyes glistened. "Of course, if yeh want it kept quiet—" he suggested significantly.
Anisty's hand sought his pocket. "How much?"
"Well, I guess I can leave that to you. Yeh oughttuh know how bad yeh want the matter hushed."
"As I calculate it, then, fifty ought to be enough for the boys; and fifty will repay you for your trouble."
The end of Hickey's expensive panetela was tilted independently toward the ceiling. "Shouldn't wonder if it would," he murmured, gratified.
Anisty stuffed something bulky back into his pocket and wadded another something—green and yellow colored—into a little pill, which he presently flicked carelessly across the table. The detective's large mottled paw closed over it and moved toward his waistcoat.
"As I was sayin'," he resumed, "I'm sorry yeh don't see yer way to givin' us a hand. But p'rhaps yeh're right. Still, if the citizens'd only give us a hand onct in a while——"
"Ah, but what gives you your living, Hickey?" argued the amateur sophist. "What but the activities of the criminal element? If society combined with you for the elimination of crime, what would become of your job?"