Joe put his big hand on Duffy’s throat and squeezed. The little guy got off the window-sill and came over to watch. His mouth hung open a little. He stood on the far side of the bed, his eyes screwed up, watching.
Joe said, “Have a little air, lug,” and eased the pressure, then he tightened his grip again.
The little guy suddenly cocked his ear. He said, “Listen.”
Joe sat very still. His hand slightly relaxed. The only sound was the soft thrashing of Duffy’s legs on the bed. A muscular reaction he had no control over. From the other side of the door they could hear Alice moving about, and they could hear the faint sound of crockery being moved.
“She’s getting him a meal,” the little guy said.
Joe grinned. “He’s losing his appetite, ain’t you, bright boy?” The effort of keeping his grip tight was making his face a little red. Then, drawing his lips back in a snarl, he threw his weight on his arms, savagely squeezing.
The little guy moved restlessly from one foot to the other. The room was absolutely silent now, except for Joe’s heavy breathing. Then Joe got off the bed, flexing his thick fingers. The little guy stepped to the window, then he jumped back quickly. “Joe….”
Forms darkened the window, as three policemen, guns in hands, raced up the fire escape. They slipped into the room with paralysing speed.
Joe stood there, his mouth open, and the whites of his eyes suddenly yellow with terror. “Don’t you shoot,” he said with a jerk, putting up his hands.
The Sergeant pushed forward. His small eyes startled. “Quite a party,” he said.