“You've got your nerve with you!” he said softly.
Bookie Skarvan chuckled in his wheezy way.
“Sure!” he said complacently. “And that's why we win. You get the lay, don't you?” He was whispering now. “You can't get that cash alone, Dave. I'm telling you straight they won't let you. But they won't watch me! You know me, Dave. I'll make it a fair split—fifty-fifty. Tell me where the money is, and I'll get it, and be waiting for you anywhere you say when you come out; and I'll fix it to hand over your share so's they'll never know you got it—I got to make sure it's fixed like that for my own sake, you can see that. Get me, Dave? And I go out of here now and tell the warden it ain't any good, that I can't get you to talk. I guess that looks nifty enough, don't it, Dave?” #
There was a fly climbing up the wire netting. It zigzagged its course over the little squares. It was a good gamble whether, on reaching the next strand, it would turn to the right or left, or continue straight ahead. Dave Henderson watched it. The creature did no one of those things. It paused and frictioned its front legs together in a leisurely fashion. After that it appeared to be quite satisfied with its position—and it stayed there.
“Poor Bookie!” murmured Dave Henderson. “Sad, too! I guess it must be softening of the brain!”
Bookie Skarvan's face blotched suddenly red—but he pressed his face still more earnestly against the wire barrier.
“You don't get it!” he breathed hoarsely. “I'm giving you a straight tip. Barjan's waiting for you. The police are waiting for you. You haven't got a hope. I tell you, you can't get that money alone, no matter where you put it.”
“I heard you,” said Dave Henderson indifferently.
There was silence for a moment.
A sort of anxious exasperation spread over Skarvan's face, then perplexity, and then a flare of rage.