Kells said into the telephone: “Information — what’s the number of the Federal Building?” He waited a moment, said, “Thank you,” pressed the receiver down with his thumb.
MacAlmon said: “How would you like to make twenty-five more?” He inclined his head toward the money on the table.
“This is enough.” Kells shook his head. “All I want is a fair price for the time I’ve put in. This is it.”
MacAlmon leaned back in the chair. “The stuff that’s being-delivered here this afternoon is worth exactly twice what’s being paid for it, to me — my people,” he said. “I don’t care who gets the money — if you’ll hold off until the transfer has been made and the stuff is in my possession I’ll give you a twenty-five grand bonus.”
Kells said: “No.”
Someone knocked at the door.
Borg pressed his lips together and let his eyelids droop, shook his head sadly. He held the blunt, black revolver loosely in his hand and looked at Kells.
Kells framed the word, “Faber,” with his lips. Borg kept on shaking his head. Kells took the Luger out of his belt and crossed the room and stood close to the wall; he nodded slightly to Borg.
Crotti and two other men came in. One of the men was carrying a big pigskin kitbag; one carried two. Crotti looked at MacAlmon and then he turned his head and looked at Borg. He hadn’t seen Kells. The man with one bag put it down on the floor, straightened. Borg closed the door. Kells said: “Hello.”
The man who had been carrying one bag took one step sideways. At the same time he jerked an automatic out of a shoulder holster, sank to one knee and swung the automatic up toward Borg. Borg’s gun roared twice.