The first cop said, “Frisk him. He’ll have a rod.”
Duffy said, “You’re dead wrong.” He had left his gun on the settee, when he had carried Olga to the bed. It was lying there, half hidden by a cushion.
The second cop stepped round him cautiously, just as if he were a wild animal that might snap any time. When he got behind him, he ran his hands down Duffy’s clothing, patting firmly. Then he stood back and shook his head. “He ain’t carryin’ one,” he said.
Duffy said, “Listen, you’re wasting time.”
“Just a minute,” the first cop said, “you’re Duffy, ain’t that right?”
Duffy said, “Sure.”
They both looked at him as if surprised that he admitted it. Then the second cop wandered over to the bed and had a look at Olga. He pulled off the wrapper and gaped at her.
Duffy said savagely, “Cover her up, you heel.”
The second cop jerked round. “Keep your trap shut, punk,” he snarled. “Another crack like that and I’ll smack you down.”
The first cop said, glancing at the bed, “She dead?”