“If he was going to do that, I think he’d have done it immediately,” Ken said. He hoped he sounded more convinced of that than he actually felt. “This is his base of operations. I don’t think he’ll risk doing anything here that might attract attention to it.”
“Half an hour ago we were on the point of attracting attention to the place ourselves,” Sandy said bitterly. “But now that he’s got us under his thumb he doesn’t have to worry any more. He’s safe.”
He lashed out suddenly with his foot. There was a piercing squeal and then the thud of a soft body against the wall. “That’s one rat that won’t walk across my foot again,” Sandy muttered. “I agree with you,” he went on an instant later, “that they’ll probably move us out of here. But the only place I want to go right now is to the police—and somehow I don’t think that’s where they’ll take us.”
“Use your head, will you?” Ken forced himself to speak sharply. “If they’re going to take us some place else, that will be our chance. Start thinking about that, instead of—”
“Chance to make a break, you mean?” There was a new, faintly hopeful note in Sandy’s voice.
“To make a break—or maybe to send a message. Wait! I think I’ve got an idea!” Ken was no longer trying to steady Sandy. He was caught up in the excitement of the thought that had just struck him. “Those phony bills I picked up—there are about five of them, I think—are inside my windbreaker. Can you back up to me and open the zipper?”
“I think so,” Sandy said. “Why?” But he was feeling his way toward Ken in the dark.
“These are apparently good counterfeits,” Ken said, turning so that Sandy’s fumbling hands would find his zipper tab. “They’d probably fool most people—except bank clerks.”
“So? I don’t get it. Hold still.”
“I’ll hunch down to make it easier.” Ken scuffed his feet noisily for a moment and then bent his knees until the top of his windbreaker was even with Sandy’s hands.