22It was almost closing time at the Minoan, which, in wartime, expected its clients to eat early and be thankful. The little room on the first floor which had seen so much of the story already was well shuttered, and the light hanging from the ceiling made a bright pool on the red tablecloth. Half in and half out of the pool sat Mr. Pirri, while Stavros lurked in the dusk behind him. Both partners were unusually quiet.
Mr. Campion, whose cheekbones were beginning to show prominently beneath dark circles behind his spectacles, sat before them.
“It’s a fair offer,” he said.
Pirri spread out his wide hands. “We’ve told you all we know,” he said, his shrill, angry voice rising.
“All right.” Mr. Campion rose. “Party’s over. We’ll go the long way round. I can identify the taxi and I can swea
