“I’ll wait,” I said, sitting on an upturned box near the door.
The youth didn’t say anything. He was nearly asleep. I sat there watching him and after a minute or so he began to snore.
I shifted my box closer to the door, but he didn’t look up. I gave him a few seconds just to be on the safe side and then reached the door. It opened silently and, leaving the youth spread over the counter. I peered into the gloom of a passage that led to a flight of stairs.
I’d have felt a lot more confident if I had a gun with me. All the same, if Myra was up there, I was going to get her out. I went up the stairs quickly.
The first room I entered was obviously Waxey’s bedroom. It was empty except for a rough cot and a lot of dirt. Waxey certainly lived the hard way.
The next door was locked. I hadn’t time for any fancy stuff, I drew back and caught the door a peach of a kick just below the lock. The door flew open and I sprawled in the room on my hands and knees.
Myra twisted over on the bed so that she could see who it was. I sat up and grinned at her.
“So you’ve come at last,” she said, trying to sit up. I could see that her wrists and ankles were bound. “Don’t sit there like a big drip. Hitch up your truss and get me out of here.”
“Kid,” I said, getting to my feet. “It’s grand to hear your voice again.”
“Never mind that stuff,” Myra snapped, bouncing up and down on the bed. “Get me undone. We can have our little cry together later on.”