“Oh, you’re hopeless, Frankie,” Bunty said impatiently. “You always find some excuse for lame dogs. The fact is he’s a nasty old drunk who spends all his time spying on people, and that’s all there is to it.”
Pete felt blood rise to his face. That was it, he thought. It’s pity. She’s one of those people who live by pity. That was why she hadn’t flinched when she had seen his face. She may have flinched inwardly, but rather than hurt his feelings, she had controlled her expression. Once again he felt the cold knot tighten inside him, and his hand went inside his coat and he touched the handle of the ice-pick.
The Packard was only twenty yards away. If he hit her now, he could reach the car before the other two could recover from the shock.
Again he knew he was deluding himself, for Frances and Bunty were now several yards ahead of him, and Buster was walking by his side.
He saw the Packard move forward and then stop, and he wondered what Moe was thinking. He felt a little chill run up his spine. Perhaps Moe would move into action. Suppose he shot her from the car? The moment the thought dropped into his mind, he quickened his step and closed the gap between himself and Frances, and walked just behind her, covering her back from Moe with his body.
Buster, determined to make conversation, began to talk about the prowess of the Brooklyn Dodgers, and kept up an enthusiastic harangue until they reached the garage where a small, battered sports car with two seats in front and a tiny bucket seat at the back stood waiting.
“There’s not much room,” Buster said, “but it goes all right. Bunty, you get in the back seat. Burt, you sit beside me and Frankie will sit on top of you. That okay?”
“Unless Burt thinks I’ll squash him,” Frances said, laughing.
Pete avoided her eyes.
“No, it’s all right,” he said, and climbed into the front seat.