'He's a fan. Why, say, he's the fan.'
Waterall shrugged his shoulders, and walked to the telephone. Benyon spoke.
'One moment.'
Waterall turned, and found himself looking into the muzzle of a small pistol. He laughed.
'I expected that. Wave it about all you want.'
Benyon rested his shaking hand on the edge of the table.
'I'll shoot if you move.'
'You won't. You haven't the nerve. There's nothing to you. You're just a cheap crook, and that's all. You wouldn't find the nerve to pull that trigger in a million years.'
He took off the receiver.
'Give me Scotland Yard,' he said.