Kells switched on the lamp beside the bed, unfolded and smoothed out the sheet of Lido stationery with Fenner’s shakily signed confession.
“We have this,” he said. “Fenner hasn’t played ball — I can stick it into him and break it off. And we’ve got around thirty-five grand. We’re in a swell spot to play both ends against the middle.”
“No, Gerry.” Her voice was harsh, strained. “Please, no, Gerry — let’s go away, quick. I’m scared...”
Kells was silent a while, looking at her abstractedly.
Then he said: “The middle against both ends, by God!” He put out one arm and cupped his hand against the back of Granquist’s neck and pulled her to him.
In the morning the sun came out warm, bright.
At about nine-thirty Borg came out of the bedroom in trousers and a green silk undershirt. Granquist had had things sent up from the commissary, was preparing breakfast in the kitchen. Borg leaned against the side of the door and looked at her and then he smiled blankly at Kells, said: “Well, well.”
“From now on” — Kells bent his head a little to one side — “Fenner’s on the other team.”
Borg went to the table and sat down. “I still like your side,” he said — “an’ I want to pitch.”
“You’re not very bright. See if you can get Faber on the phone — tell him to come up here.”