"Well! Well! Who's rented the warehouse? Who are your pals, Mr. Garth?"
Garth kept his back turned. The glasses tinkled musically under Marlowe's nervous fingers.
"Maybe you'll name your pleasure, gentlemen."
"Nothing but a little quiet," Slim grunted.
Marlowe flung up his hands, indicating a profound disapproval.
"Then what you mean coming through my cellar? That might get me in bad with the cops. Or maybe you're detectives like Mr. Garth?"
Slim responded to the strain of this waiting. He turned angrily on the man.
"How often have I told you, Papa Marlowe, to keep your fat mouth shut?"
For Garth that outburst pitilessly defined the new element. Slim's anger had let slip real evidence of the proprietor's lawless connection with the gang; and Slim, Garth knew, was unlikely to make blunders he couldn't retrieve. This one dovetailed into the fact that the detective could still identify the four confederates he had seen down stairs—that is, if he kept his eyes. Slim, then, had no intention of holding to his bargain with Nora. He would use Garth as far as the border, then he would protect his own through the unspeakable punishment his twisted soul craved. Nor could Garth see any way to save himself. Moreover, he knew Nora too well to cast lightly aside the promise she had drawn from him on a note of command.
George emerged from the booth. The four men stared at each other without words. Once or twice Marlowe started to speak, but at a frown from Slim he smothered the impulse in a busy attention to his bar cloth.