“Aw, can that!” A tinge of impatience had crept into the police officer's voice. “We got the whole story. Runty Mott and Baldy Vickers opened up—wide.”
“I read about them in the papers,” said Dave Henderson. “They said enough without me butting in, didn't they?”
“You mean,” said Barjan sharply, “that you won't come across?”
“What's the use!” said Dave Henderson. “Their story goes, doesn't it? I wouldn't spoil a good story. They said I took the money, and if you believe them, that goes. I'm through.”
“No good!” snapped Barjan. “You'd better open up on where that money is, or it will go hard with you!”
“How hard?” inquired Dave Henderson.
“I dunno,” said Barjan grimly. “Five years.”
Five years! How long was five years? His mind was growing tired now, too, like his body. He forced himself to the effort of keeping it active. It was a long way from where Baldy Vickers had broken his ribs, and where they thought he, Dave Henderson, had last had the money, to Mrs. Tooler's old pigeon-cote! And a hundred thousand dollars in five years was twenty thousand dollars a year—salary, twenty thousand dollars a year. Five years! It was win or lose, wasn't it? No hedging! Five years—five years before he could settle with Bookie Skarvan!
He spoke aloud unconsciously:
“It's a long time to wait.”