you much harm. You would hardly feel the loss of it⸺”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Morley,” interrupted Teck. “Or is this chatter of yours a sort of pitcher’s wind-up, limbering up your voice, so to speak, for the real⸺”
“It’s of no consequence, Desperate Desmond,” Val waved him aside with an airy motion. “By the way, can you tell me any real reason why I shouldn’t hand you over to the police?”
“Who, me?” inquired Teck, pained that Val should even think of such a thing. “Why? Do you mean to insinuate that I had any connection with what you claim to have been an imprisonment in my apartment? My dear boy, you could never prove anything, don’t you realize that? Of course, I am speaking theoretically only, because I must deny emphatically that I know anything about the matter. You are a sentimental young man. Why don’t you write your stories and try to sell them to the magazines? I can assure you⸺”
“I’m not talking of that, Iggy. That’s a score I intend to settle with you personally—nobody else can do it as well as I. I’m talking about poor old Mat Masterson. I know you murdered him, and I intend to have you pay the penalty⸺”
“Nonsense,” said Teck. “You can prove nothing of the sort. And even if you think you can⸺”
“I don’t have to prove anything,” said Val. “All I have to do is to tell the police that you’re the bird who stole the books. After that it shouldn’ be so hard, even for our police.”
“Well, why don’t you do it?” suggested Teck, unconcerned.
