Skidder had no more to tell, so he manufactured more.
“Well,” he continued craftily, “I didn’t exactly get what that kike said.” But his grin and his manner gave his words the lie, as he intended they should. “Something about your being in dutch––” He checked himself as Puma’s black eyes lighted with a momentary glare.
“What? He tells you I am in with Germans!”
“Naw;––in dutch!”
Puma’s sanguinary skin reddened; his puffy fingers fished for a cigar in the pocket of his fancy waistcoat; he found one and lighted it, not looking at his partner. Then he picked up the morning paper.
Skidder shrugged; stood up, pretending to yawn; started to open the door.
“Elmer?”
“Yeh? What y’want?”
“I want to know exactly what Max Sondheim said to you about me.”
“Well, you better go ask Sondheim.”