Killer Durgan looked sharply at him, the cold sneer lurking at his mouth corners. But his eyes gleamed with interest.
“All right, wise guy. Who was it? Some bird that had it in for Waldron?”
Shires flipped a cigarette from a pack and lighted it before answering. “Sure, a guy that had it in for Waldron! And maybe the guy put it up to Marsland to get Waldron. A guy who has it in for you, too! And maybe he’ll get you, the same way.
“He’s got it in for you and every bird running a racket in this town! And I’m the baby that knows the lay! Get me?”
Shires let the smoke dribble from his nostrils. “A grand a week, Durgan,” he suggested softly. “Is it worth it to you — to keep on living?”
Killer Durgan became thoughtful. He had a crafty, cunning brain. His contempt was feigned; his sneers only pretense. He had a sense of perception that Tim Waldron had lacked.
He was sizing up Ernie Shires, reading him as one reads a book. He knew that Shires was quick-witted and as observant as himself. And he wanted to know what Shires knew.
“One grand a week,” Durgan repeated slowly. “Well, you might be worth it at that, working for me. If you spill what you know!”
Ernie Shires grinned. He had a revelation to make, and he was sure he had built up Durgan’s interest.
“You want the name of the guy who busted up Waldron’s racket?” he asked. “You want to be sure that he’s big enough to give you trouble, too? That he’s one hell of a sight more dangerous than the cops? Is that it?”