The Frightened Chameleon: A Case for Superintendent Anthony Slade by Leonard Gribble

Author:Leonard Gribble [Gribble, Leonard]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: PFD Books
Published: 2015-08-10T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XIII

NEW LINKS

"NOT diamonds?"

There was sharp dismay in his voice as he strove to recover himself from the shock of surprise occasioned by the Yard man's observation.

"I said for all you know to the contrary," Slade pointed out.

"Are you telling me, Mr. Slade," said Prestman, "that I've been mixed up in something else? Diamonds—well, they're clean. They might be illegal, though that's a matter of some speculation. But there are other things—things I wouldn't touch for money. I wouldn't help any filthy dope trafficker, and that's the truth, though heaven knows you've no occasion to take my word, as things have turned out."

"As things have turned out," echoed Slade. "That rather puts a fine point to the argument, Prestman. But first let me be quite honest with you. I don't know what was in those sealed boxes parachuted by Farling. I don't think diamonds is the truth. But I am well aware that you were not to know that. I think, too, that you can set your mind at rest on one score. Unless I am very much mistaken, you haven't been helping any dope traffickers."

Prestman nodded abruptly and passed a handkerchief over his face, which shone moistly under the lamp.

"Well, that's a relief, I'll say that much," he said.

They heard footsteps crossing the floor above their heads.

When Slade glanced up Prestman said, "That's Peter going to bed."

A scratching sound came from the bottom of the door. The garage man rose and opened it, and a cat marched in with arched back and tail wagging from side to side.

"Meet the fourth member of the family," Prestman said, pointing to the cat. "Slippers, and in many ways he's the luckiest of us. He mostly gets what he wants without taking any trouble to make sure it comes his way. That's my idea of being on velvet."

The cat came and rubbed its head against one of the detective's ankles, stared up at him with unfathomable amber eyes, and retreated under a chair, where it promptly gave what mind it had to the highly pressing matter of its nocturnal ablutions.

"You know," said Prestman, coming back to the settee, "Slippers has a reputation for being clean. I can't make up my mind whether he's really clean or extra lousy. He's always nibbling at himself, but whether he's washing or fleaing I'm damned if I can tell."

He looked at Slade shrewdly.

"Don't get mad at me, Mr. Slade. I know I'm wandering a long way from the point. But I haven't forgotten what it is. The real point, I mean." He rubbed his mouth with nervous fingers. "George getting me to garage that car, and those two picking it up. It—it doesn't look good."

He stopped again, breathing hard.

"Suppose you tell me just how bad it looks," Slade told him.

The man grinned one-sidedly.

"You've got a hell of a way of putting things. All right, this is how it really looks bad. George brings the car here. He doesn't say it's his. I take it for granted it is.

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