“Toby Monk. He runs a jitney, but he is eating his supper. His car may be outside.”
“Where does he leave it?”
“Just above here.”
“There is no car out there,” said Patsy. “I just came in and would have seen it.”
“He’s put it up until later, then, as he often does about this time.”
“It don’t matter,” said Patsy. “The walking’s good.”
He turned away indifferently, and was pleased to see that other customers then claimed the attention of the bartender. Having carefully noted in which direction he had gazed a moment before, Patsy easily determined on which man his eyes had lingered, and he now furtively sized him up—a well-built man in the thirties, with a dark, smooth-shaven face, a square jaw, and thin lips, having a downward curve that gave him a sinister expression.
But Patsy’s train of thought was cut short when Toby Monk, rising abruptly from a seat at the table, took his cap from a wall rack and strode out through the saloon.
At the same moment a burly, red-featured man entered from the street, and the two met just within the swinging doors and scarce six feet from that end of the bar at which Patsy was standing. He saw Toby Monk start slightly, as if surprised, and then heard him exclaim, with inquiring scrutiny:
“Hello! What’s up, Shannon?”