. . .

“I’ll make a call,” says Bertram, metallically, “once I’m in the air. You understand. They’ll let Linus go.”

“Of course, sir,” says Tom.

He gives Bertram his best insincere smile.

“No hard feelings,” Bertram says.

“Gold is a soft metal, sir,” says Tom. His grin widens. His teeth are pearly white.

Bertram nods. He turns to go.

He walks out.

He closes the door.

“That wicked rotter,” Tom snarls, dropping his cat’s cradle. “Jane!”

<< . . .

. . . >>