The secret policeman wasn’t smiling. It just looked like that because his false teeth didn’t fit correctly. I was relieved. If Russian writer Isaac Babel is to be believed it’s when secret policeman start grinning at you that you should begin to worry.
“Think about it,” he said as he ran his fingernails along the right lapel of a navy double breasted blazer that was miles too big for him. His eyes were dark and squinty and his skin yellowy white. He was small, grey haired and not terribly menacing.
“I’m sorry?” I said, unsure that I had heard him correctly.
He repeated his offer. “Any book in Hemingway’s library for two hundred dollars,” he said in carefully enunciated English.
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