Fenner shook his head.
Nightingale went over to a drawer and took out a big automatic. Reiger jerked up his head. “He don’t want a rod.”
Nightingale took no notice. He handed the gun to Fenner. Reiger seemed to get quite excited. “I tell you he don’t want a rod,” he said, standing up.
Fenner looked at him. “Give it a haircut,” he said, “I feel safer with a rod.”
They stared at each other, then Reiger shrugged and sat down again.
Nightingale gave a peculiar smile. “You given up packing a rod?” he said to Fenner. “They tell me you’re dynamite with a trigger.”
Fenner balanced the automatic thoughtfully in his hand. “I get by,” was all he said.
Miller looked at the small watch that seemed out of place on his thick wrist. “Let’s go,” he said. He wrapped the machine-gun in his dust-coat and picked up his hat.
Reiger moved to the door. Nightingale said softly to Fenner: “Watch those two birds.”
There was a big sedan parked outside the Funeral Parlor. Reiger got under the driving-wheel, and Fenner and Miller got in behind. Fenner waved his hand to Nightingale as the car slid away. He caught a glimpse of Curly watching behind Nightingale. He could just make out the blurred outline of her face.