Olga wandered round the room, stepping carefully. “That was a swell idea of yours about the bank.”
Duffy nodded. His face was hard and cold. “I’ll fix that smart bastard,” he said.
She said, “There’s time for that. You’d better move over to my place.”
He looked round the wreckage. “I guess it don’t really matter. We’re due to pull out tomorrow, so what the hell.” He wandered into his bedroom and looked round with a grimace. The room had been searched as thoroughly as the sitting-room. There was a lot more mess, because the mattress and the pillows had been ripped.
Olga peered round the door. “Our love-bed’s been destroyed.”
“To hell with that,” Duffy said. “They’ve stolen my whisky.” He dug about under the bed and dragged out two battered suitcases covered with feathers. “Get going,” he said. “Do some work for a change.”
Just then the telephone bell began to ring, and he went over to answer it, leaving her sorting his shirts and things from the wreckage.
It was Sam at the other end.
“Why, Sam,” Duffy was pleased. “I’m glad you phoned.”
“Listen, you bum,” Sam sounded excited. “Don’t tell me you let that hot mamma go home to her people.”