Duffy shook his head. He got to his feet. “I want the Buick,” he said. “I might need a little protection from now on, and I’d feel a lot safer in the Buick.”
Ross said, “I knew it, you’re in a jam.”
“Show me the wagon.”
Ross led him out into the shed again. “That’s her.”
The Buick was just an ordinary-looking car, slightly shabby in the body, although she had been freshly washed down. Duffy looked her over thoughtfully. “Sell her to me,” he said at last.
Ross took a quick look over his shoulder, then plodded over. “She looks the berries, don’t she?” he said. He opened the door. “You try that.”
Duffy had to make a strong effort to get the door to shut. “That’s steel,” Ross said. “Good thick stuff, see?” He opened the door again and climbed inside. Duffy leant against the door and put his head forward.
“The guy that threw this bus together knew all about it,” Ross said, settling his hindquarters firmly on the padded seat. “The roof is armour plate. Take a look at the windows.” He rolled one down. “Looks all right from the outside, but see how thick they are.”
The glass was at least three-quarters of an inch in thickness.
“That’ll bounce a .45 slug back at the guy who sent it,” Ross said. He touched a spring in the dashboard and a small panel slid back. He put his hand inside and took out two Colt automatics. “You won’t need these,” he said. “I’ll clear them out for you.”