“I mean,” the Saint said, “Big Bill ain’t here. Come in and case the joint.”
“Whyn’t cha say so?” Mac snarled, and pushed inside.
They searched nook and cranny, and Mac fingered a knothole hopefully once. They gave the bunk beds a passing glance, and were incurious about the seeming pile of pine cones in the corner. Mac boosted Jimmy up on the big central beam to peer into ceiling shadows, and they scanned the fireplace chimney.
Then they stood and looked at the Saint with resentment.
“Sump’n’s fishy,” Jimmy pronounced. “He’s got to be here. This here” — he pointed — “is Trailer Mac.”
“Maybe we better go get the boss, huh, Jimmy?”
“Yeah,” Jimmy agreed. “He’ll find Big Bill.”
“Who,” the Saint inquired, “is the boss?”
“You’ll see,” Jimmy promised. “He won’t be scared of you. He’s just down the hill in the town. Stopped off to play a game of billiards. So we’ll be seein’ ya, bub.”
They went off into the night, and the Saint stood quite still for a moment in a little cloud of perplexity.