The Suspect by Edgar Saltus

"How much do you want? " the pawnbroker asked.

"Oh," I said, with an air of assumed indifference, "a hundred will do."

The pawnbroker gave me a queer, sharp look, one which he instantly diverted to the gold cigarette case, a rather elaborate affair, that I had offered him, and which had on it in jewels the initials K. M.

He looked up at me again.

"At auction it wouldn't bring half that. Twenty is the best I can do."

It was idle to argue; besides, I never can haggle. But I needed more. I told him so. In the telling, I produced a watch, also gold, also initialed, one that had in it the miniature of a girl's fair face.

He looked it over, and, darting another queer glance at me, snapped: "Fifteen!"

At once, as I nodded, he got out some bills, which he fumbled meditatively, much as though he had never seen them before.

Behind him was a telephone; also a row of shelves on which were hideous things. In between was a counter, topped with glass, through which I could see brooches, bracelets, rings -- the lamentable tokens of disastrous days. Beyond, at the rear of the shop, a man bent heavily over an enormous ledger. Without was the roar of the Bowery; within an odor of camphor. At my elbow was the telephone book, and before me the pawnbroker, a sinister and sinewy brute.

"I haven't quite got it," he suddenly exclaimed.

He turned, put the watch and case on a shelf, took the receiver from the hook, and, after a moment, called: "Three thousand one hundred, Spring."

"Three thousand one hundred, Spring? " he presently resumed. "This is Alfred Cohen. Yes. Send Jakey with change for a hundred. What? Sure! Shake a foot."

With that, he replaced the receiver, turned again, and threw out: "Fine day!"

"Very," I threw back.

Then indifferently, as though for the mere distraction of it, I took up the telephone book, and opened it, haphazard, in the middle. I had hit the mark, though. There it was: "Police Headqts, 3100 Spring. " I turned the page, flipped at another, closed the book, put it down, and dropped into the obvious:

"What would we do without telephones?"

Mr. Cohen gurgled appreciatively:

"There you are!"

"Or," I continued, "without cigars? While we are waiting for Jakey, I'll go and get one. " Ingratiatingly I added: "I'll get two."

As I spoke, I turned. Before me, through the grating and glass of the door, came the glitter of the street, the shriek of trains, the grunt of cars, the shapes of passers -- instantly effaced.