But, just as the bretteurs of old felt no twinges
of conscience at the recollection of their victims, even so do
these people regard the dark and bloody things in their past, as
the unavoidable little unpleasantness of their professions.
They are drinking coffee with rich, boiled cream--the inspector
with Benedictine. But he, strictly speaking, is not drinking, but
merely conveying the impression that he is doing it to oblige.
"Well, what is it to be, Phoma Phornich?" asks the proprietress
searchingly. "This business isn't worth an empty eggshell, now...
Why, you have only to say a word..."
Kerbesh slowly draws in half a wine-glass of liqueur, works the
oily, strong, pungent liquid slightly with his tongue over the
roof of his mouth, swallows it, chases it down, without hurrying,
with coffee, and then passes the ring finger of his left hand over
his moustaches, to the right and left.
"Think it over for yourself, Madam Shoibes," he says, looking down
at the table, spreading out his hands and screwing up his eyes.
"Think of the risk to which I'm exposed! The girl through means of
deception was enticed into this.
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