“Sing Sing, an’ de juice route—eh?” he muttered. “Did dey spot who youse were?”
“No,” said Billy Kane.
“Aw, well den, wot de hell!” observed Whitie Jack, with a sudden grin. “Dat’s easy! Youse have got a coat now, an’ we’ll beat it over for yer dump, an’ dat’s de end of it! You have got to get dat shoulder fixed, an’ I’m some guy wid de bandage stuff—believe me!”
Billy Kane did not answer for a moment. Well, why not? He had accepted the absent Rat’s personality, why not the absent Rat’s hospitality? It would afford him shelter for the moment, and he was living, feeling, groping his way now only from moment to moment. Also, and what was of even more urgent importance, he must somehow and in some way get his wound dressed.
The flashlight in Whitie Jack’s hand was sweeping in a circle around the room—in a sort of precautionary leave-taking survey of the place, as it were. The room was evidently the proprietor’s office; but from what Billy Kane could see of it, it was bare and uninviting enough. He caught a glimpse of a rough table and a couple of chairs, and then the flashlight went out. But he was still staring, through the darkness now, toward the far end of the room—and it seemed that he could still see just as vividly as though the light still played upon the spot. There was an old safe there, a large and cumbrous thing, long out of date, and the door sagged on its hinges where it had been blown open, and the floor around it was littered with the books and papers it had evidently contained.
“That’s a bum job you made, Whitie!” commented Billy Kane sarcastically. “You’re an artist, you are! What did you expect to get out of a piker hang-out like this?”
“Aw, forget it!” returned Whitie Jack. “It ain’t so bum! I’d like to see youse crack a box in here wid soup, an’ not wake de whole town up. Dat’s wot I get mine for—a century note—see? Dere wasn’t nothin’ in de safe! Not a nickel! It’s a stall—savvy? But, come on, Bundy, we’ll beat it out of here, an’ get youse fixed up.”
A stall! What did Whitie Jack mean? Whitie Jack, at Antonio Laverto’s instigation, had blown open the safe, knowing beforehand that there was nothing in it! What was Laverto’s game? Billy Kane mechanically made his way out along the passage, the flashlight winking in Whitie Jack’s hand behind him. What was the game? Laverto was no fool, and there seemed an ominous something back of it all, but he dared not press Whitie Jack, or appear too inquisitive. His own position now was precarious enough as it was, and needed all his wits to see him through. For instance, they were going now to the Rat’s quarters, to what was supposedly his, Billy Kane’s, quarters—and he had not the faintest idea where, or in what direction, those quarters might be! Billy Kane smiled grimly in the darkness. But Whitie Jack evidently knew. Therefore Whitie Jack, without knowing it, must be made to act as guide!
They were outside now. Whitie Jack had closed the door. Billy Kane raised his hand to his head, smiled grimly again to himself in the darkness, and stumbled heavily against his companion.
“Wot’s wrong?” whispered Whitie Jack anxiously. “Here, buck up, Bundy!”