“It is less than ten minutes since I got your message,” observed the inspector.

“Ach!” Mr. Gertstein flung his hands wide in an expressive gesture, as of one who accepts an excuse in which there is no body. He rotated round the room, buzzing like an agitated wasp. “An hour. Dis is what I pay for,” he proclaimed. “For dis I pay my thousands a year to the rates for police salaries. What protection do I get for it? None.” He waved a podgy hand. “All the work of the finest craftsmen in the world stripped from me. You will get it back, eh?”

Labar felt that it was only the vulgarity of the expression that prevented Gertstein from adding, “I don’t think.” He lifted his eyebrows.

“You are insured?”