The Dark Star

"Yes, but----"

"Where's the holler?" insisted Stull.

"I ain't hollerin', am I? Only this here is new stuff to me----"

"Listen, Doc. I don't know what it is, but all these here European

kings is settin' watchin' one another like toms in a back alley. I

think that some foreign political high-upper wants dope on what our

people are finding out over here. Like this, he says to himself: 'I

hear this Kink is building ten sooper ferry boats. If that's right, I

oughta know. And I hear that the Queen of Marmora has ordered a

million new nifty fifty-shot bean-shooters for the boy scouts! That is

indeed serious news!' So he goes to his broker, who goes to a big

feller, who goes to Quint, who goes to us. Flag me?"

"Sure."

"That's all. There's nothing to it, Doc. Says Quint to us: 'Trim a few

guys for me and get their letters,' says Quint; 'and there's somethin'

in it for me and you!' And that's the new stuff, Doc."

"You mean we're spies?"

"Spies? I don't know. We're on a salary. We get a big bonus for every

letter we find on the carpet----" He winked at Curfoot and relighted

his cigar.

"Say," said the latter, "it's like a creeping joint. It's a panel

game, Ben----"

"It's politics like they play 'em in Albany, only it's ambassadors and

kinks we trim, not corporations."

"We can't do it! What the hell do we know about kinks and

attachés?"

"No; Weishelm, Breslau and Kestner do that. We lay for the attachés or

spin or deal or act handy at the bar and buffet with homesick

Americans. No; the fine work--the high-up stuff, is done by Breslau

and Weishelm. And I guess there's some fancy skirts somewhere in the

game. But they're silent partners; and anyway Weishelm manages that

part."

Curfoot, one lank knee over the other, swung his foot thoughtfully to

and fro, his ratty eyes lost in dreamy revery. Brandes tossed his

half-consumed cigar out of the open window and set fire to another.

Stull waited for Curfoot to make up his mind. After several minutes

the latter looked up from his cunning abstraction: "Well, Ben, put it any way you like, but we're just plain political

spies. And what the hell do they hand us over here if we're pinched?"

"I don't know. What of it?"

"Nothing. If there's good money in it, I'll take a chance."

"There is. Quint backs us. When we get 'em coming----"

"Ah," said Doc with a wry face, "that's all right for the cards or the

wheel. But this pocket picking----"

"Say; that ain't what I mean. It's like this: Young Fitznoodle of the

Embassy staff gets soused and starts out lookin' for a quiet game. We

furnish the game. We don't go through his pockets; we just pick up

whatever falls out and take shorthand copies. Then back go the letters

into Fitznoodle's pocket----"