Weel laughed harshly.
“Get your hat, Bunky,” he chuckled. “We’re being taken into custody.”
“You’ve got the wrong idea,” I explained. “This isn’t a pinch. It’s a stickup. Up go the hands!”
Dahl’s hands went up quick. Weel hesitated until Mickey prodded him in the ribs with the nose of a .38-special.
“Frisk ’em,” I ordered Mickey.
He went through Weel’s clothes, taking a gun, some papers, some loose money, and a money-belt that was fat. Then he did the same for Dahl.
“Count it,” I told him.
Mickey emptied the belts, spit on his fingers and went to work.
“Nineteen thousand, one hundred and twenty-six dollars and sixty-two cents,” he reported when he was through.
With the hand that didn’t hold my gun, I felt in my pocket for the slip on which I had written the numbers of the hundred-dollar bills Main had got from Ogilvie. I held the slip out to Mickey.
“See if the hundreds check against this.”
He took the slip, looked, said, “They do.”
“Good—pouch the money and the guns and see if you can turn up any more in the room.”
Coughing Ben Weel had got his breath by now.
“Look here!” he protested. “You can’t pull this, fellow! Where do you think you are? You can’t get away with this!”