"And he is now incarcerated in your bastille."
"Right. And he had your dough on him."
Ward sat back in his swivel chair, hooked his thumbs into the arm holes of his vest and beamed. "Well, I guess that makes it pretty clear. Eh, Mr. Peck? Diaz, the dead pigeon, and this guy McSweeney take it on the lam from the big house. They sticks you up, then blow North and land here. They're going to split, but McSweeney's a pig. He wants the works. So what does he do? He croaks his pal." Ward cocked his head and extended his hands, palms outward. "Okay?"
Mr. Peck scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"Well, fairly so," he answered without enthusiasm. "But before I say how clear, I'd like to see this McSweeney person."
A moment later a very sullen and defiant Mike McSweeney was ushered into the room.
"Turn around slowly," Mr. Peck ordered.
The man sulked, but with a little persuasion, he finally did as he was told.
"Now take your shoes off."