“Go ahead,” said the sheriff, “I reckon you know I’m watchin’ all the time.”
“Surely,” said Malone pleasantly. “I know you’re on your job all the time.”
He walked over to the hutch and picked up the bottle and the glass. He paused with the bottle tucked away under his arm.
“Queer thing,” pondered Malone, “the same pack that held this bottle of whisky held this also.”
Lefty tightened his grip on the gun as Malone reached deeper into the hutch, but he straightened again, and appeared carrying a large concert banjo.
“That fellow had taste,” he continued, crossing the room and laying down the banjo carelessly on the chair; “just run your eyes over that banjo.”
“Some banjo, all right,” said the sheriff, “but hurry up with your drink, Malone. We’ve got to be on our way.”
Malone uncorked the bottle and held it under his nose while he inhaled a whiff.
“The old aroma, all right,” he pronounced with the air of a connoisseur; “must be a vintage as far back as the eighties. You won’t join me?”
Now the heart of the sheriff was a human heart, but his will was adamant.