At half-past six we were still sitting there. The Scotch bottle was about half full. Cigarette butts mounted in the ashtrays. We were fit to walk up the wall.
Then the telephone rang: a shrill sound that sounded sinister in the silent little apartment.
“I’ll get it,” I said, and walked stiff legged across the room and picked up the receiver.
“Malloy?” A man’s voice.
“Yes.”
“This is Sherrill.”
I didn’t say anything, but waited, looking across at Kerman.
“I have your girl on board, Malloy,” Sherrill said. His voice was gentle; it whispered in my ear.
“I know,” I said.
“You better come out and fetch her,” Sherrill said. “Say around nine o’clock. Don’t come before. I’ll have a boat at the pier to bring you out. Come alone, and keep this close. If you bring the police or anyone with you, she’ll be rapped on the head and dropped overboard. Understand?”