Druse said: “That’ll be fine.”
“When?” Crandall stood up.
Druse put the derringer back in his pocket. “Right now — where’s your car?”
Crandall jerked his head towards the street. They went out through the crowded gambling room, downstairs, got into Crandall’s car. Crossing Queensborough Bridge Druse glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes past twelve.
At three thirty-five Druse pushed the bell of the penthouse, after searching, vainly as usual, for his key. The Filipino boy opened the door, said: “It’s a very hot night, sir.”
Druse threw his hat on a chair, smiled sadly at Mrs. Hanan, who had come into the little entrance-hall. “I’ve been trying to teach him English for three months,” he said, “and all he can say is ‘Yes sir,’ and ‘No, sir,’ and tell me about the heat.” He turned to the broadly grinning boy. “Yes, Tony, it is a very hot night.”
They went through the living room, out onto the terrace. It was cool there, and dim; a little light came out through the wide doors, from the living room.
Mrs. Hanan said: “I’d about given you up.”
Druse sat down, sighed wearily. “I’ve had a very strenuous evening — sorry I’m so late.” He looked up at her. “Hungry?”
“Starved.”