I know when I'm beaten. I've got
no revolver and no weapons of any kind. I surrender. Do what you
like.'
And with that Rocco sat down on a chair. It was magnificently
done. Only a truly great man could have done it. Rocco actually
kept his dignity.
For answer, Racksole walked slowly into the vast apartment,
seized a chair, and, dragging it up to Rocco's chair, sat down
opposite to him. Thus they faced each other, their knees almost
touching, both in evening dress. On Rocco's right hand was the
bed, with the corpse of Reginald Dimmock. On Racksole's right
hand, and a little behind him, was the marble washstand, still
littered with Rocco's implements. The electric light shone on
Rocco's left cheek, leaving the other side of his face in shadow.
Racksole tapped him on the knee twice.
'So you're another Englishman masquerading as a foreigner in my
hotel,'
Racksole remarked, by way of commencing the interrogation.
'I'm not,' answered Rocco quietly. 'I'm a citizen of the United
States.'
'The deuce you are!' Racksole exclaimed.
'Yes, I was born at West Orange, New Jersey, New York State. I
call myself an Italian because it was in Italy that I first made a
name as a chef - at Rome. It is better for a great chef like me to be
a foreigner. Imagine a great chef named Elihu P. Rucker. You can't
imagine it. I changed my nationality for the same reason that my
friend and colleague, Jules, otherwise Mr Jackson, changed his.
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