Piggy Bank

Начало книги

Ballards’s diamonds were being stolen as fast as he could make new ones. Insurance companies had long since given him up as a bad risk. Detective agencies were glad to offer their services, at a high fee, but, since the diamonds were invariably stolen, anyhow, this was simply more money down the drain. It couldn’t keep up. Ballard’s fortune was founded on diamonds, and the value of gems increases in inverse proportion to their quantity and availability. In ten years or so, at the present rate of theft, unfiawed blue-whites would be almost worthless.

“So what I need is a perfect safe,” Ballard said, sipping a liqueur. He stared across the table at Joe Gunther, who only smiled.

“Sure,” Gunther said. “Well?”

“You’re a technician. Figure it out. What do I pay you for?”

“You pay me for making diamonds and not telling anybody I can make ‘em.”

“I hate lazy people,” Ballard remarked. “You graduated top man at the Institute in 1990. What have you done since then?”

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