Five of us were gathered in the red room of the Belgravia mansion on Groom Place: the Nitry brothers, Eddie Apex, his wife Ceil, and I. We were all slumped into various Victorian chairs and sofas, forming a rough circle around the Roosevelt Hotel laundry bag that squatted, a bit reproachfully, I thought, on the floor where I had dropped it. Norbert Nitry sighed again, staring at the money bag. “So you think there’s a mob of them, do you?” He was looking at the money bag, but talking to me. I sipped some of the tea that I had chosen over coffee. It was quite good. “There were at least three to start with,” I said. “Maybe four. Maybe even more.” “Why do you think so?” Ned Nitry said. “Well, the dead man and whoever called me on the phone this morning weren’t the same. I’d heard the dead man talk—in the Black Thistle that time—and he had a strong London accent. I don’t think he could have changed his voice that much, but it really doesn’t matter because by the time that I got the call this morning at six, his throat had already been cut and I’m assuming that he didn’t make any phone calls after that.”
