"They sure have, Miss Fueyo," Boyd said.
"I guess they're furnishing their new hideout," Malone said. "Wherever it is. Only God knows."
"And even if He told us," Boyd said, "it wouldn't do us any good.
Chase 'em out of there, and they'd go somewhere else."
Malone stood up, fished for his cigarettes and lit one. "What we need," he said, blowing out smoke, "is some way to trap 'em and hold 'em. And I don't see how we can do either."
"After last night," Dorothea said, "I really don't see—"
"Wait a minute," Boyd said. "You said trap, didn't you?" He looked slowly and speculatively at Dorothea Fueyo.
A second passed.
"Oh, no, you don't!" she said. "Oh, no. Not on your life. I'll help catch him if I can, because I know you don't mean to hurt him or the others. But I wouldn't want Mike to know about it. You're not using me as bait in any trap."
Boyd looked at Malone, shook his head slowly, and said disconsolately,
"Well, it was an idea." He returned his gaze to the floor.
The furtive gleam of the half bottle of bourbon on Malone's dresser caught his eye. He'd had it sent up the night before, feeling the need of some medicinal refreshment. Now it winked at him. He ignored it resolutely. "Dorothea," he said.