Gladys picked up the tankard, and while she filled it, she said in a voice scarcely above a whisper, “That’s Davie Bentillo. I recognized him in spite of his disguise.”
George Fraser stiffened. He glanced quickly at the little, redfaced man. Davie Bentillo! What a hit of luck! Every cop in the country was looking for Davie. It could he, although the disguise was superb. He was the same height as Scarletti’s ferocious gunman. Yes, it was the same nose and eyes… Gladys was right!
“Nice work, kid,” George Fraser said, and his hand crept to his hip pocket to close over the cold butt of his gun.
“Be careful, Mr Fraser,” Gladys breathed, her face waxen with fear. “He’s dangerous. “
Edgar Robinson jogged George’s elbow. “Wake up, cock,” he said, settling himself comfortably on a stool. “You look like sleeping beauty this morning. Bin on the tiles?”
George Fraser blinked at him, sighed and said, “Morning.”
Robinson took off his thick glasses and polished them with a grimy handkerchief. Without his glasses his eyes looked like small, green gooseberries. “Be a pal and ask me what I’ll have,” he said, showing his yellow teeth as he beamed at George. “I’ve bin and left me money at home.”
George eyed him without enthusiasm. “Well, what’ll it be?”
Robinson put his glasses on again and looked round the bar. “Well, I’d like a double whisky,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “but seeing as ’ow you’re paying, I’ll make it a beer.”
George signalled to Gladys.