‘That scarcely answers my question,’ I said, put down the glass and produced a five-dollar bill. I kept it between my fingers so only he and I could see it.
He looked to right and left, frowned, hesitated, then looked to right and left again: as obvious as a ham actor playing Hard-iron, the spy, for the first time.
‘Give me it wid a butt,’ he said, without moving his lips.
I gave him a cigarette and the bill. Only five of the six men in the bar saw him take it. The other had his back turned.
‘One of Barratt’s boys,’ he said. ‘Keep clear of him: he’s dangerous.’
‘Yeah; and so’s a mosquito if you let it bite you,’ I said, and paid for the beer and the sandwich.
As he scooped up the money, I asked, ‘What’s he call himself?’
He looked at me, frowning, then moved off down to the far end of the bar. I waited a moment until I was sure he wasn’t coming back, then I slid off the stool and went out into the hot afternoon sunshine.
Jeff Barratt: could be, I thought. I didn’t know he had any boys. He had a good reason to shut Gracie’s mouth. I began to wonder if he was the master-mind behind the kidnapping. It would fit together very well if he was; possibly too well.
I also wondered, as I walked across to where I had parked the Buick, if Mary Jerome was hooked up in some way with Barratt. It was time I did something about her. I decided to run up to the Acme Garage and ask some questions.