"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 216 - The Chinese Primrose" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"Well, Trobin," spoke Brend in a dry tone. "How did you make out on your last trip, selling—prune
groves?"

Trobin didn't like Brend's pause before the term "prune groves," nor the artful accent that he gave the
words. His lips tightening, Trobin pulled a wallet from his pocket. From it, he extracted a sheaf of bank
notes, all of high denominations, and counted them on Brend's desk.

The money totaled thirty-five thousand dollars. Taking the cash in his turn, Brend counted off thirty-five
hundred and handed that amount back to Trobin.

"Ten percent," said Brend, his tone still dry. "A good-enough commission, Trobin, for an easy sale."

"The sale was easy enough," blurted Trobin. "If I hadn't got rid of it quick, to that customer in Chicago, I
could have gotten a lot more for the bracelet -"

"For the item," corrected Brend, his interruption stern. "Remember, Trobin, that we sell items—which
can mean prune groves, instead of -"

He paused, his lips half smiling, but Trobin did not take the hint. He wanted to talk, to have his full say,
now that he was alone with Brend.

"Instead of Chinese jewelry!" snapped Trobin. "That's our racket, Brend— getting rid of antique jewelry
smuggled in from China. Why try to deny it, between ourselves?"

Brend merely shrugged. He retained his half smile, as though interested in Trobin's sudden mood and
therefore quite willing that the nerve-racked salesman should continue with his theme.

"I want to know what's behind it!" exclaimed Trobin suddenly. "I know you're peddling the stuff, Brend,
using fellows like myself to take the jewels all over the country. But who brought it into the country, to
begin with?"

"Would you like to guess, Trobin?"

"I think I can guess!" emphasized Trobin bluntly. "There's a lot of junk jewelry, cheap stuff, being
imported and sold by a man named Felix Mandore -"

A SUDDEN blaze of Brend's usually cold eyes forced Trobin to interrupt himself. As Brend arose from
the desk, Trobin shrank back nervously in his chair. Then Brend was cool again, speaking crisply.

"Forget Mandore," he said. "All you need to know is that items of real value are being sold along with the
imitation junk. When chaps like you go to the right places and do the right thing, you get the real stuff,
and can sell it. That ought to be satisfactory, Trobin."

"It would be," admitted Trobin, "if the right places were outside of Chinatown; maybe out of Frisco
altogether."

"Which they can't be," returned Brend decisively, "because only Chinese shops carry a large line of junk
jewelry; and as long as the racket stays in Frisco, I can make sure that there is no leak in the game."
Brend's reference to himself merely emphasized in Trobin's mind the fact that someone else—quite