"I don't drink," the Boy said.
"Now," Mr. Colleoni said, "who sent you?"
"No one sent me."
"I mean who's running your mob if Kite's dead."
"I'm running it," the Boy said.
Mr. Colleoni politely checked a smile, tapping his thumb nail with the gold lighter.
"What happened to Kite?"
"You know that story," the Boy said. He gazed across at the Napoleonic crowns, the silver thread.
"You won't want to hear the details. It wouldn't have happened if we hadn't been crossed. A journalist thought he could put over one on us."
"What journalist's that?"
"You ought to read the inquests," the Boy said, staring out through the window at the pale arch of sky against which a few light clouds blew up.
Mr. Colleoni looked at the ash on his cigar; it was half an inch long; he sat deep down in his armchair, and crossed his little plump thighs contentedly.
"I'm not saying anything about Kite," the Boy said.
"He trespassed."
"You mean," Mr. Colleoni said, "you aren't interested in automatic machines?"
"I mean," the Boy said, "that trespassing's not healthy."
A little wave of musk came over the room from the handkerchief in Mr. Colleoni 's breast pocket.
"It'd be you who'd need protection," the Boy said.
"IVe got all the protection I need," Mr. Colleoni said. He shut his eyes; he was snug; the huge moneyed hotel lapped him round; he was at home. The Boy sat on the edge of his chair because he didn't believe in relaxing during business hours; it was he who looked like an alien in this room, not Mr. Colleoni.
"You are wasting your time, my child," Mr. Colleoni said. "You can't do me any harm." He laughed gently. "If you want a job though, come to me. I like push. I dare say I could find room for you. The world needs young people with energy." The hand with the cigar moved expansively, mapping out the world as Mr. Colleoni visualised it: lots of little electric clocks controlled by Greenwich, buttons on a desk, a good suite on the first floor, accounts audited, reports from agents, silver, cutlery, glass.
"I'll be seeing you on the course," the Boy said.
"You'll hardly do that," Mr. Colleoni said. "I haven't been to a racecourse, let me see, it must be twenty years." There wasn't a point, he seemed to be indicating, fingering his gold lighter, at which their worlds touched: the week-end at the Cosmopolitan, the portable dictaphone beside the desk, had not the smallest connexion with Kite slashed quickly with razors on a railway platform, the grubby hand against the skyline signalling to the bookie from the stand, the heat, the dust fuming up over the half-crown enclosure, the smell of bottled beer.
"I'm just a business man," Mr. Colleoni softly explained. "I don't need to see a race. And nothing you might try to do to my men could affect me. I've got two in hospital now. It doesn't matter. They have the best attention. Flowers, grapes... I can afford it. I don't have to worry. I'm a business man," Mr. Colleoni went expansively and good-humour edly on. "I like you. You're a promising youngster. That's why I'm talking to you like a father. You can't damage a business like mine."
"I could damage you," the Boy said.
"It wouldn't pay. There wouldn't be any faked alibis for you. It would be your witnesses who'd be scared. I'm a business man." The raisin eyes blinked as the sun slanted in across a bowl of flowers and fell on the deep carpet. "Napoleon the Third used to have this room," Mr. Colleoni said, "and Eug&iie."
"Who was she?"
"Oh," Mr. Colleoni said vaguely, "one of those foreign polonies." He plucked a flower and stuck it in his buttonhole, and something a little doggish peeped out of the black buttony eyes, a hint of the seraglio.
"I'll be going," the Boy said. He rose and moved to the door.
"You do understand me, don't you?" Mr. Colleoni said without moving--holding his hand very still he kept the cigar ash, quite a long ash now, suspended.
"Brewer's been complaining. You don't do that again.
And Tate... you mustn't try tricks with Tate." His old Semitic face showed few emotions but a mild amusement, a mild friendliness; but suddenly sitting there in the rich Victorian room, with the gold lighter in his pocket and the cigar case on his lap, he looked as a man might look who owned the whole world, the whole visible world, that is: the cash registers and policemen and prostitutes, Parliament and the laws which say "this is Right and this is Wrong."
"I understand all right," the Boy said. "You think our mob's too small for you."
"I employ a great many people," Mr. Colleoni said.
The Boy closed the door; a loose shoelace tapped all the way down the passage; the huge lounge was almost empty: a man in plus fours waited for a girl. The visible world was all Mr. Colleoni's. The spot where the iron hadn't passed was still a little damp over the Boy's breast.
A hand touched the Boy's arm. He looked round and recognised the man in a bowler hat. He nodded guardedly. " Morning."
"They told me at Billy's," the man said, "you'd come here."
The Boy's heart missed a beat: for almost the first time it occurred to him that the law could hang him, take him out in a yard, drop him in a pit, bury him in lime, put an end to the great future....
"You want me?"
"That's right."
He thought: Rose, the girl, someone asking questions. His memory flashed back: he remembered how she caught him with his hand under the table, feeling for something. He grinned dully and said: "Well, they haven't sent the Big Four anyway."
"Mind coming round to the station?"
"Got a warrant?"
"It's only Brewer been complaining you hit him.
You left your scar all right."
The Boy began to laugh. "Brewer? Me? I wouldn't touch him."
"Come round and see the inspector?"
"Of course I will."
They came out onto the parade. A pavement photographer saw them coming and lifted the cap from his camera. The Boy put his hands in front of his face and went by. "You ought to put a stop to those things," he said. "Fine thing it'd be to have a picture postcard stuck up on the pier, you and me walking to the station."
"They caught a murderer once in town with one of those snaps."
"I read about it," the Boy said and fell silent. This is Colleoni's doing, he thought, he's showing off: he put Brewer up to this.
"Brewer's wife's pretty bad, they say," the detectiTe remarked softly.
"Is she?" the Boy said. "I wouldn't know."
"Got your alibi ready, I suppose?"
"How do I know? I don't know when he said I hit him. A geezer can't have an alibi for every minute of the day."
"You're a wide kid," the detective said, "but you needn't get fussed about this. The inspector wants to have a friendly chat, that's all."
He led the way through the charge room. A man with a tired ageing face sat behind a desk. "Sit down, Brown," he said. He opened a cigarette box and pushed it across.
"I don't smoke," the Boy said. He sat down and watched the inspector alertly. "Aren't you going to charge me?"
"There's no charge," the inspector said. "Brewer thought better of it." He paused. He looked more tired than ever. He said: "I want to talk straight for once.
We know more about each other than we admit. I don't interfere with you and Brewer: I've got more important things to do than prevent you and Brewer arguing. But you know just as well as I do that Brewer wouldn't come here to complain if he hadn't been put up to it."
"You've certainly got ideas," the Boy said.
"Put up to it by someone who's not afraid of your mob."
"There's not much escapes the bogies," the Boy said, grimacing derisively.
"The races start next week, and I don't want to have any big-scale mob fighting in Brighton. I don't mind you carving each other up in a quiet way, I don't give a penny for your worthless skins, but when two mobs start scrapping, people who matter may get hurt."