Larson was on his hands and knees; his big shoulders and thick neck were pulled in tightly, rigidly.
Kells stooped and picked up the revolver, stuck it into his overcoat pocket. Then he laughed quietly, said: “Copper yellow. That’s the first time my reputation ever did me any good.”
He went to the door swiftly, turned once to glance hurriedly at Larson. Larson had risen to his knees. He did not look at Kells; he looked at the wall — he was breathing heavily.
Kells opened the door and went out and closed it behind him.
Fifty-eight said: “There it is.”
They were parked in the deep shadow between two street lights in the next block to the one Larson’s house was in. A big touring car had come up quietly, without lights, stopped across the street from Larson’s.
Kells didn’t say anything. He sat huddled in a corner of the cab and although the night was fairly warm he shivered a little.
After a few minutes another car swung around the corner, pulled up in front of Larson’s. Kells leaned forward and watched through the glass. Three men got out and went into the house. In a little while they came out; one of them went across the street and stood beside the car that had come up first, the others got into the other car and drove away.
Then the man got into the second car, its lights were switched on and it too drove away.
Kells said: “Give ’em enough room.”