Fenner leaned against the wall, covering Carlos with his gun. “You’re lucky,” he said. “Beat it before I change my mind. Go on—dust, you—”
Carlos took two staggering steps to the door and flung it open. Fenner heard him blundering downstairs and he heard him fumbling at the lock. He stood, his head on one side, listening. Then out of the night came a sound of two Thompsons firing. Both gave a long burst, then there was silence.
Fenner put his gun away slowly and groped for a cigarette. “I guess I’ve had about enough of this burg. I’ll go home and take Paula out for a change,” he said to himself. He climbed out of the skylight and let himself down the iron ladder. As he did so he heard the sound of a car starting. It was Alex and Kemerinski calling it a day.
He went round and looked at Carlos. He had a tidy mind. He had had no doubt that those two would do a good job, but he liked to be sure. He need not have bothered. They’d done a good job. He brushed down his clothes with his hand, thinking busily, then he turned and walked back towards Noolen’s place.
Noolen started out of his chair when Fenner came in. He said, “What happened?”
Fenner looked at him. “What do you think? They’re horse flesh—both of them. Where’s Glorie?”
Noolen wiped his face with his handkerchief. “Dead? Both of them?” He couldn’t believe it.
Fenner repeated impatiently, “Where’s Glorie?”
Noolen put two trembling hands on the desk. “Why?”
“Where is she, damn you!” Fenner’s eyes were intent and ice-cold.