After about an hour, Skippy put down the glasses and broke the news: the game was over.
We took our time getting back to Henry's place, so Chapo would have time to clear out. Henry greeted us with eight fingers in the air.
Eight hundred? But before I could ask him, he was already talking: "Eight big ones! Eight thousand bucks! And how you did it, I'll never know!"
Well, eight thousand was good news, no doubt of that. I said, "That's the old system, Henry. But we couldn't have done it if you hadn't steered the fish up to the window." And I showed him the Japanese field glasses, grinning.
But he didn't grin back. He looked puzzled. He glanced toward the window.
I looked too, and then I saw what he was puzzled about. It was pretty obvious that Henry had missed my signal. He and the fish had played by the window, all right.
But the shade was down.
When I turned around to look for Skippy, to ask him some questions, he was gone. Evidently he didn't want to answer.
I beat up and down every block in the neighborhood until I spotted him in a beanery, drinking a cup of coffee and looking worried.