Gus was standing with his hands on his belly, staring at his highly polished boots. Duffy saw blood oozing between his fingers. Gus fell on his knees, hesitated, his body swaying. Then he straightened out on his face.
Duffy said, “I hope you liked it.” He went quickly to the luggage that was piled on the floor, selected a long strap from one of the grips, and bound the first cop’s arms tightly. Then he went over to Olga, picked up the wrap, and covered her with it.
He moved silently and swiftly. All the time at the back of his brain he could see the jam he was in. He went back to the cop who was coming round. Duffy hauled him on to the settee, retrieved his gun from under the cushion, and stuck it down his waist-band. Then he slapped the cop across the face twice with his open hand.
The cop opened his eyes, gave a grunt, and then tried to sit up. Duffy said, “Who’s behind this frame-up?”
The cop glared, but didn’t say anything.
Duffy drew his gun and put it close to the cop’s face. “I’m in a hurry,” he said, his eyes like chips of ice. “Spill it quick, or I’ll hook your eyes out with this gun-sight.”
The cop suddenly went limp and began to sweat. He mumbled, “Miss English tipped us off. She gave us a nice slice to knock you, resisting arrest. We’ve worked for her before.”
Duffy said, “Her father in this racket?”
The cop shook his head. “He don’t know nothing.”
Duffy went over to Gus, turned him over with his foot, searched in his pockets, and found the roll of notes. He counted them carefully. Then he looked up. “There’s ten grand here,” he said. “Was that your cut?”