Bugsey said, “Oh, well,” and drove off.
Glorie sat in the corner of the car, a sulky expression on her face. Fenner stared over Bugsey’s broad shoulders at the road ahead. They drove all the way to Noolen’s in silence. When they swept up the short circular drive Glorie said, “I don’t want to go in there.” She said it more in protest than in any hope of Fenner’s agreeing. He swung open the door and got out.
“Come on, both of you,” he said impatiently.
It was half-past eleven o’clock as they walked into the deserted lobby of the Casino. In the main hall they found a Cuban in shirt-sleeves aimlessly pushing an electric cleaner about the floor. He looked up as they crossed towards him, and his mouth went a little slack. His eyes fastened on Glorie, who scowled at him.
“Noolen around?” Fenner said.
The Cuban pressed the thumb-switch on the cleaner and laid it down almost tenderly. “I’ll see,” he said.
Fenner made a negative sign with his head. “You stay put,” he said shortly.
He cut across the hall in the direction of Noolen’s office. The Cuban said, “Hey!” feebly, but he stayed where he was.
Glorie and Bugsey lagged along in the rear. Fenner pushed open the door of the office and stood looking in. Noolen was sitting at his desk. He was counting a large pile of greenbacks. When he saw Fenner his face went blotchy and he swept the greenbacks into a drawer.
Fenner walked in. “This is no hold-up,” he said shortly; “it’s a council of war.”