"So--so that's what you're after, is it?" he jerked out. "Well"--he
laughed unnaturally and waved his hand at the disarray of the
room--"it's been stolen already."
"I know that," said Jimmie Dale grimly. "By--YOU!"
"Me!" Mittel started up in his chair, a whiteness creeping into his
face. "Me! I--I--"
"Sit down!" Jimmie Dale's voice rang out ominously cold. "I haven't any
time to spare. You can appreciate that. But even if the police return
before that map is in my possession, they will still be TOO LATE as
far as you are concerned. Do you understand? Furthermore, if I am
caught--you are ruined. Let me make it quite plain that I know
the details of your little game. You are a curb broker, Mr.
Mittel--ostensibly. In reality, you run what is nothing better than an
exceedingly profitable bucket shop. The Weasel has been a customer
and also a stool for you for years. How Hamvert met the Weasel is
unimportant--he came East with the intention of getting in touch with a
slick crook to help him--the Weasel is the coincidence, that is all. I
quite understand that you have never met Hamvert, nor Hamvert you, nor
that Hamvert was aware that you and the Weasel had anything to do
with one another and were playing in together--but that equally is
unimportant. When Hamvert engaged the Weasel for ten thousand dollars
to get the map from you for him, the Weasel chose the line of least
resistance.
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