Silence settled down heavily in the little room. Outside a tugboat hooted sorrowfully. The stove clinked once. Otherwise only the ticking of a clock marked the stillness.
Ken grunted as loudly as he could past the plaster over his mouth. Sandy grunted in answer.
Ken grunted again—an uneven series of sounds. A moment later Sandy did the same. Interpreted into the dots and dashes of the Morse code, the noises meant “O.K.” Sandy was letting him know that he too realized they could communicate.
“B-I-L-L-S G-O-N-E,” Ken spelled out laboriously. He felt certain Sandy was already aware of that, but to tell him so gave Ken the comfort of contact.
“G-O-O-D,” Sandy grunted back.
They had done what they could. Before noon, Ken hoped, there should be a small stream of people hopefully applying to one bank or another, asking if the torn bills they had found might be replaced by whole ones. And soon afterward—if all went well—a small army of police and Treasury agents would be combing the lower east side area of New York.
Ken wondered if he should have written “Tobacco Mart” on some of the bills. It might have directed police attention to the spot. But, on the other hand, it might instead have sent the finders of the bills to Grace’s headquarters, and that would have defeated Ken’s purpose.
The minutes dragged by in the dark.
Suppose, Ken found himself thinking, that none of the bills were picked up? Or that none of the finders were hopeful enough of being able to cash in on them to take them to a bank?
If he and Sandy weren’t rescued by morning, would they ever be rescued?