“I bet you’ve been stealing my whisky,” he said.
The man who was looking out of the window turned his head quickly. He was big. He had Mongolian eyes and a loose mouth. He had that battered, brutal face of an unsuccessful prize-fighter.
Duffy looked at him, then he looked at the two sitting in the chairs. The nearest one was a little guy with tight lips and cold,, hard eyes. His face was white as cold mutton fat, and he just sat, with his hands folded across his stomach.
The other one, sitting on the little guy’s right, was young. He had down on his cheeks and his skin had that peculiar rosy tint that most girls want, but don’t have. He looked tough, because he had screwed up his eyes and drawn down the corners of his mouth. Duffy thought he was just movie-tough.
The little guy said, “He’s here at last.”
Duffy shut the door and leant against it. “If I’d known you were coming,” he said, “I’d been here sooner.”
The little guy said, “Did you hear that? The bright boy said if he’d known we were coming, he’d been here sooner.”
The other two said nothing.
Duffy said, “Now you’re here, what’s it all about?”
“He wants to know what’s it all about,” the little guy said again.