“Are you armed?”
“Certainly.” I was at the door.
“They will be desperate.”
“I already am.”
I let myself out, ran down the stoop and to the corner. Herb was in his hack, listening to the radio. At sight of me on the lope he switched it off, and by the time I was in he had the engine started. I told him, “Eighty-sixth and Fifth,” and we rolled.
We went up Eleventh Avenue instead of Tenth because with the staggered lights on Tenth you can’t average better than twenty-five. On Eleventh you can make twelve or more blocks on a light if you sprint, and we sprinted. At Fifty-sixth we turned east, had fair luck crosstown, and turned left on Fifth Avenue. I told Herb to quit crawling, and he told me to get out and walk. When we reached Eighty-sixth Street I had the door open before the wheels stopped, hopped out, and crossed the avenue to the park side.
Bill Doyle was there. He was the pale gaunt type, from reading too much about horses and believing it. I asked him, “Anything new?”
“No. I been here waiting.”
“Can you show me Saul’s bush without rousing the dog?”
“I can if he’s still there. It’s quite a ways.”