Hahn shot one swift look at him and removed his hand. The queen showed. The room gasped. Plimsoll clapped Sandy on the shoulder.
"You did it," he said. "Broke the bank when you called that turn. Game's closed and the drinks on the house. How'll you have it?"
The crowd made way as Plimsoll walked across to his safe, twirled the combination, opened the doors and took out a stack of bills.
"Bills from a century up," said Sandy. "The odds and ends in gold—for the drinks."
The excitement was dying down. The man from the Three Star had won and had been paid. Plimsoll's game was square. A few, reading the slight signs of Hahn's nervousness, still held some doubts, but the games were closing. The drinks were brought. Two men lounged out into the front room after they had tossed theirs down. Sandy slipped the folded bills into the breast pocket of his shirt in a compact package.
"See who went out?" asked Sam in his side whisper.
"Yep. Saw it in the glass of that picture. We'll go out the back way. Not yet." He shouldered his way through the congratulating crowd, Sam close behind him, into the front room. It was empty. The short end of Sandy's winnings still provided liquor. For a moment they were alone. Plimsoll had not followed them. Sandy swiftly socketed the bolt on the inside of the front door, turned the key and slid that into his pocket.
"Now we'll go out the back way," he said. "I ain't strong fo' playin' crawfish, Sam, but I ain't keen on bein' potted in the dark. I'll bet what I got in my pocket Butch is huggin' the boards to one side of this shack. I got too much money on me to be a good insurance risk."
Sam chuckled. Plimsoll met them just inside the door.
"Makin' a short cut," said Sandy. "Good night."