"Don't worry about that, Gatti," Dan said. "He'll turn up. He knows the trail's hot and he'd rather be a live rat than a dead kidnapper."
Gatti shook his head slowly. "I don't know," he said vaguely. "You say you'll know if it's the same one that phoned. How can you be sure?"
"The accent. It's unmistakable. A deep voice and an accent like a vaudeville dialectician's."
Gatti refilled their glasses from the green bottle on the table. Then they were silent.
The front door opened and two men entered. One was fat with a complexion the color of old weather beaten brick and eyes that were watery and cold. He wore a high crowned, pearl grey fedora, set squarely on his head and his fleecy coat had heavily padded shoulders. The other man was slight and sallow. His coat was too tight across his back and he walked with a defiant swagger. They hung their hats and coats on the rack and sat down two tables away from the one at which Dan and Gatti were sitting. The waiter put down his cigar and came to their table, bowing slightly.
"Spaghetti wid' a meat sauce," the stout man ordered loudly, "an' a bottle a' Chianti."
"Same," the small man said laconically.
The waiter went off without a word. The two men lit cigarettes. Dan and Gatti watched them with open curiosity, waiting for some sign but they smoked in silence, never looking in the direction of the other table.
"It's the organ grinder accent all right," Gatti said in a barely audible voice. "But where's the high sign?"
"Give him a chance," Dan mumbled. "He has to be plenty careful, I suppose."