“So I just wanted to say there’s no side-stepping, no four-flushing, at this end of the trip!”
“I understand,” was Binhart’s listless response.
“I’m glad you do,” Blake went on in his dully monotonous voice. “Because I got where I can’t stand any more breaks.”
“All right, Jim,” answered Binhart. They sat staring at each other. It was not hate that existed between them. It was something more dormant, more innate. It was something that had grown ineradicable; as fixed as the relationship between the hound and the hare. Each wore an air of careless listlessness, yet each watched the other, every move, every moment.
It was as they made their way slowly down to the coast that Blake put an unexpected question to Binhart.
“Connie, where in hell did you plant that haul o’ yours?”
This thing had been worrying Blake. Weeks before he had gone through every nook and corner, every pocket and crevice in Binhart’s belongings.
The bank thief laughed a little. He had been growing stronger, day by day, and as his spirits had risen Blake’s had seemed to recede.
“Oh, I left that up in the States, where it’d be safe,” he answered.
“What’ll you do about it?” Blake casually inquired.