“Right,” I said. “I’ll be seeing you.”
Out in the hot darkness, Davis said, gloomily, “What the hell are we going to do now?”
“Get that girl out,” I said grimly.
“Talk sense. You heard what the man said.”
“Sure I heard,” I said. “I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll bet you ten bucks I have her out by tomorrow night.”
He stared at me in disgust. “Aw, you’re nuts,” he said, getting into the car, “but I’ll take your money.”
“I’m not nuts,” I said, climbing in beside him. “I have an idea.”
3
A half an hour later I was in the car again with Davis, driving, and Tim Duval in the back. “This is it,” Tim said, peering out of the window. Davis swung to the kerb and stopped before a sober-looking building. Above the shop-front was a sign: “Maxison’s Funeral Parlour.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Davis said.