“I shall not sign, and I shall bring this theft to the attention of—Doctor Sanson,” I said, suddenly recollecting the name.
It was a chance shot, but its effect was extraordinary. The mob, which had begun to jostle me, suddenly scurried away in the greatest confusion. The clerk turned white; he picked up the money with trembling fingers.
“Why, that is so!” he exclaimed. “It was a mistake, Boss. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I—I thought you were a blue,” he muttered, looking up at me beseechingly. And he returned me a whole half-hektone too much.
I tossed this back to him and returned no answer. I was looking about for a pen with which to sign the receipt when the policeman took hold of my thumb in a comically obsequious manner and pressed the inkpad against it. So I made my mark upon the paper.
In the corridor outside he turned toward me humbly.
“Are you a trapper, Boss?” he asked.
“A what?”
“A switch. A wipe. I mean a council watcher.”
“A spy, you mean?” I asked. “Certainly not.”
He shook his head in perplexity, and seemed uncertain whether to believe me or not. “He thought you were,” he said. “That was an old list he used. You should have had more. Of course I couldn’t get in bad with him by telling you, but you’d have had nothing if I hadn’t stood up for you. Isn’t that worth something, Boss?”