B.F.G. So what? T-T.
It was bleak, brief defiance, but Gascon felt a sudden blaze of triumph. Somehow he had made a right guess, on a most fantastic proposition. Tom-Tom had come to life as a lawless menace. All that he, Gascon, need do, was act accordingly. He made plans, then inserted another message:
T-T. I made you, and I can break you. This is between us. Get in touch with me, or I'll come looking for you. You won't like that. B.F.G.
Next day his telephone rang. A hoarse voice called him by name:
"Look, Gascon, you better lay off if you know what's good for you."
"Ah," replied Gascon gently, "Tom-Tom seems to have taken up conventional gangster methods. It means that he's afraid—which I'm not. Tell him I'm not laying off, I'm laying on."
That night he took dinner at a restaurant on a side street. As he left it, two men sauntered out of a doorway and came up on either side of him. One was as squat and bulky as a wrestler, with a truculent square face. The other, taller but scrawny, had a broad brow and a narrow chin, presenting the facial triangle which phrenologists claim denotes shrewdness. Both had their hands inside their coats, where bulges betrayed the presence of holstered guns.
"This is a stickup," said Triangle-Face. "Don't make a move or a peep, or we'll cut down on you."
They walked him along the street.
"I'm not moving or peeping," Gascon assured them blandly, "but where are you taking me?"