Here, at a smothered exclamation from Hank, his inquisitor put up a slim hand in gentle protest. “Now don’t try to look like the picture of injured innocence, Hank. What Hank doesn’t know, Mr. Bolton, is that I have watched him for something like this ever since he and Tubby got together up at Glendale one night last week. And although they were not advertising the fact, I heard of it. Last night—and this will also be a surprise to Hank—I was behind the stone wall at the side of the road when he turned over the truck, and I saw Tubby hand him the money.”
Slim Johnson’s arm shot out like a serpent uncoiling. There came a sharp click and Hank rolled off the couch on to the floor.
Bill stared at the man’s body in horrified amazement. Then he heard the smooth voice of Johnson speak again to him. “Airguns,” he said pleasantly, “certainly have their uses.”
Johnson slipped the revolver up his sleeve again and crooked a finger at Jake. “Take that stiff out of here,” he ordered in his lisping tones, “he’s spoiling my rug and I paid five grand for it.”
While Jake dragged the dead man through the doorway beyond the card table, Slim Johnson drew out a gold case, selected a cigarette which he lighted, and filled his lungs with smoke.
“No doubt you’re shocked by the summary justice you saw meted out,” he remarked with a return of his languid air. “Treachery has its own reward in this business. I’m sorry if it disturbed you, Mr. Bolton.”
Bill did not reply. He was thinking that of all the cold-blooded murders he had ever heard of, this was certainly the worst. He saw now that the young man’s languid effeminacy was but a cloak to camouflage a nature hard as nails and utterly ruthless. Nobody had to tell him that he himself was in very dangerous waters and that unless he could handle this lady-like monster with kid gloves, he, too, would be removed from the Oriental rug as a piece of loathsome débris.
Bill made an effort to be matter-of-fact. “Suppose we come to business,” he suggested.
“Exactly what I was about to propose, Mr. Bolton, or shall I say ‘Bill’—you don’t mind if I call you Bill, do you? So much more clubby, you know—”
“Not at all.” Bill felt that anything would be preferable to this silly chatter. He, therefore, took the plunge. “You want to know where Mr. Evans may be found?”