I shoved past him and went out into the street.
I found Whisky lying on the floor of the taxi, but Myra wasn’t there.
“Where is she?” I demanded.
“Get inside,” Whisky said. “Where have you been?” The urgency in his voice startled me, so I got into the cab and shut the door.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“How much longer are you keeping me here?” the driver asked angrily. “I’ve got a home if you haven’t.”
Whisky showed his teeth. “Sit there and like it,” he snarled. The driver got out of his cab hastily. “Come on, legs,” he said, clutching at his collar. “I’m going to start running.”
“Come back when you’re through,” I said. “You’ve got a nice evening for it.” The driver didn’t listen. He began running madly down the street.
I turned my attention to Whisky. “Now,” I said, “where did she go?”
“Keep down,” Whisky said in a mysterious mutter. “The cops have moved in.”