"It isn't!"
The Irishman's face fell.
"Some swell, I suppose? Fifth Avenue way and the swagger parts, eh?"
Fischer assented silently. His host poured himself out some whisky and drank it as though it were water.
"You see, boss," he pointed out, "it's no use sending greenhorns out on a job like that, because they only squeak if they're pinched, and pinched they're sure to be; and all my regulars are what we call in sanctuary."
"You mean they are hiding already?"
"That's some truth," was the grim admission. "The cops ain't going to trouble to come after 'em, so long as they keep here, but they'd nab 'em fast enough if they showed their noses beyond the end of Fourteenth. Still, I'd like to oblige you, guv'nor. I don't know who you are, and don't want, but my boys speak fine of you. You know Ed Swindles?"
"Not by name," Fischer confessed.
"He did that little job up at Detroit," the Irishman went on, dropping his voice a little. "I tell you he's a genius at handling a bomb, is Ed. Blew that old factory into brick-ends, he did. He's in the saloon upstairs—got his girl with him. They've been doing a round of the dancing saloons."
"That's all right, but what about this job?" Fischer inquired, a little impatiently.