Jimmy looked wicked. The watching blue eyes blurred and their place was taken by a commodious two-storeyed house, not a mile away, which had become an exceptionally promising prospect. What he looked like losing on this Bonaparte roundabout he could pick up from that two-storeyed swing. He said quietly:

“That’s a lot of money, Inspector.”

“You must make a lot of money every year, Jimmy.”

“About three thousand quid-on average.”

“And no income tax. You can be lucky.”

“I’m doubting it. All right, you win. What next?”

“I like your style, Jimmy,” Bony conceded generously. “Honestly, I regret having to cramp you now and then. My investigation into these cyanide poisonings is going to extend me and I’m sure will provide you with fun and games. Continue to enjoy relaxation from business and don’t worry concerning the future. You are the only man in Broken Hill versed in the highways and byways of crime and yet not a policeman. Who knows! I may want you to take a peep into a house or two before I’m through. I may even ask you to examine, among other objects, the treasures of your charming friend who wears ropes of pearls and hoops of diamonds. The sum you lifted from the bookmaker’s flat that late Saturday evening was, I understand, just under three thousand.”

“Bit over,” Jimmy corrected.

“No matter. Do we play around?”

“We do,” cheerfully replied Jimmy the Screwsman.

Chapter Five

Salvage

ON LEAVING the cafe, Bony wended his way to the establishment of S. Goldspink, and, observing that the large woman wearing the pearl necklace was not engaged with a customer, he approached her and presented his card. Before she could read his name he drifted to the rear of the shop and became interested in floor coverings, and there she followed him and said coldly:

“Yes, Inspector?”

The dark brown eyes were hostile, the mouth grim. The pearls gleamed with automatism indicative of suppressed emotion in the ample bosom on which they rested.