As for Puma himself, he glanced up stealthily from the scenario he was reading as he stood by the big desk, but dropped his eyes again, and, opening a drawer, laid away the typed manuscript. Then he pulled out the revolving desk chair and sat down.
“Well?” he inquired, lighting a cigar.
There was an ominous silence among the three men for another moment. Then Puma looked up, puffing his cigar, and Sondheim stepped forward from the group and shook his finger in his face.
“What yah got planted around here for us? Hey?” he demanded in a low, hoarse voice. “Come on now, Puma! What yeh think yeh got on us?” And to Kastner and Bromberg: “Go ahead, boys, look for a 287 dictaphone and them kind of things. And if this wop hollers I’ll do him.”
A ruddy light flickered in Puma’s eyes, but the cool smile lay smoothly on his lips, and he did not even turn his head to watch them as they passed along the walls, sounding, peering, prying, and jerking open the door of the cupboard––the only furniture there except the desk and the chair on which Puma sat.
“What the hell’s the matter with yeh?” snarled Sondheim, suddenly stooping to catch Puma’s eye, which had wandered as though bored by the proceedings.
“Nothing,” said Puma, coolly; “what’s the matter with you, Max?”
Kastner came around beside him and said in his thin, sinister tone:
“You know it vat I got on you, Angelo?”
“I do.”