Gleason stiffened and got to his feet. “Morgan? How the hell did Morgan know?”
Duffy shrugged. “I guess I talked too much,” he said. “Anyway, that’s your funeral.”
He walked to the door. “I gotta few things to fix, then I’m blowing.”
Gleason stood in the middle of the room, the note-book in his hands, staring at the floor. Duffy took one look at him, shrugged, and opened the door. Annabel was standing there pointing a.38 at his belly.
Duffy raised his hands just above his waist very quickly. She said, “Reach up, punk, the roof’s not high enough.”
Gleason came across quickly and jerked Duffy’s gun out. Then he said in a low voice, “Walk backwards.”
Duffy obeyed. Annabel came into the light. Her face was very pale, and it had a scraped, bony look. She looked a hundred years old, standing there hating him with her eyes. Gleason put Duffy’s gun into his hip pocket and then went across to Duffy and took the sheaf of notes from him. He gave a little grin. “Too bad,” he said.
Duffy continued to look at Annabel. He said very evenly and through his teeth, “You’d better let that heater off. I’ll kill you if I get the chance.”
She said, “Sit down.”
Duffy sat down because he wanted to, not because she told him to. She said to Gleason, “Put the radio on.”