“Listen, you,” said Cliff, in a low, emphatic voice. “I’m supposed to bump you off. See? But I’m going to let you get away. I’m treating you right, see?”
The man stammered his thanks. Cliff paid no attention. He must impress the man with a sense of constant danger.
“I’ve got a reason for it,” continued Cliff, softly and rapidly. “I’ve got a hunch I can use you some time. Later on. But if this guy that was with me knows you’re alive — it’ll be the end of you. He’ll get you.
“Your only chance is to scram. If you squeal to the police, your life won’t be worth a nickel. Here’s some dough” — Cliff thrust a roll of bills into the startled man’s hands — “but you’ll never live to use it if you forget what I’m telling you!”
“I’ll do anything!” blurted Dunc Miller. “Anything that you say is best! I don’t want to die!”
The man was petrified with fear; he was clutching this one straw of safety. Cliff was sure that he would obey.
“Run your cab in an alley and leave it there,” ordered Cliff. “Over on the East Side. Pick a place with empty houses around, so it would look like I could have hidden your body. Then light out for Buffalo.
“Call at general delivery for mail — your name will be Willard Watson. You’ll hear from me. This thing will blow over. You’ll be back in New York. I’ll see you get your cab again. Got that?”
“Yeah,” replied the cab driver, clutching the roll of bills.
“Then move,” ordered Cliff. “And remember, don’t slip up on my instructions, or you’ll get this.” As a reminder, Cliff stroked the muzzle of his automatic across the back of Miller’s neck. The cab driver quailed at the touch of the cold metal.