Shep stuck his little head out of the window and peered.
“That’s right.”
Duffy drew into the kerb. They both got out. “What number did you say?”
Shep hunted in his pockets, found a scrap of paper, screwed up his eyes, then said, “1469.”
Duffy checked the house near him. “It’s on the other side farther down.”
Together they crossed the street and began walking casually down. Duffy said, “They’re both dangerous; you got to watch ’em, Shep.”
Shep grinned. “Me… I’m scared to hell… like hell,” he said.
1469 was a tall, gaunt apartment house. Duffy ran up the steps and checked the list of names. “Clive Wessen,” he said. He rang the next bell, waited until the latch gave, pushed open the door and walked in. Shep shuffled behind him. “Third floor,” Duffy said, keeping his voice down.
They climbed the stairs slowly. The place was clean and bright. Duffy said, “These punks live well, don’t they?”
Shep said nothing, he was saving his breath. On the third floor, Duffy took the Colt out; he held it loosely in his hand, hanging down by his side.