Gleason jerked up the gun. “Sit down,” he said, his voice suddenly harsh.
Duffy just looked at him. “Wake up, louse,” he said evenly. “You’ve got nothing on me. That heater don’t mean anything now.”
Annabel said with a little hiss, “Shoot him low down.”
Duffy glanced at her. “Hell,” he said. “At one time I got a kick out of looking at you, you murderous little bitch.”
Gleason got to his feet and stood hesitating. His face was almost bewildered. Duffy said to him, “I’m on my way. When you want that note-book back, give me a ring. I’m in the book.”
Gleason said, “Wait.”
Duffy shook his head. He wandered to the door. “You won’t get anywhere by letting the gun off. You’ll never find the book without me being around.”
Gleason’s arm dropped to his side. “Well, five grand,” he said with an effort.
Duffy shook his head, he opened the door. “Don’t rush it,” he said, “take your time. Think about it. I’ll wait.” He pulled the door behind him and walked to the elevator. He suddenly felt very tired and his brain refused to think. He slid the grille and stepped into the elevator and pressed the ground-floor button.
Outside, he beckoned to a yellow cab, and in a short time he was again climbing the stairs to McGuire’s apartment. He opened the door with his key and went in. The clock on the mantelpiece stood at 1.45. He tossed his hat on the sofa and wandered over to the apple-jack, that was still standing on the table. The bottle was light; it was nearly empty. He made a little face. Then he drained the bottle and put it down on the table again. He held his breath for a moment, then gently puffed out his cheeks. The stuff was good.