The Kid spun to the girl.
“You do the talking—and no wise breaks!”
She got up from the floor and went to the passageway.
“Who is there?” she called.
The landlady’s voice, stern and wrathful:
“Another sound, Mrs. Almad, and I shall call the police. This is disgraceful!”
I wondered what she would have thought if she had opened the unlocked door and taken a look at her apartment—furniture whittled and gutted; a dead man—the noise of whose dying had brought her up here this second time—lying in the middle of the litter.
I wondered—I took a chance.
“Aw, go jump down the sewer!” I told her.
A gasp, and we heard no more from her. I hoped she was speeding her injured feelings to the telephone. I might need the police she had mentioned.
The Kid’s gun was out. For a while it was a toss-up. I would lie down beside Billie, or I wouldn’t. If I could have been knifed quietly, I would have gone. But nobody was behind me. The Kid knew I wouldn’t stand still and quiet while he carved me. He didn’t want any more racket than necessary, now that the jewels were on hand.
“Keep your clam shut or I’ll shut it for you!” was the worst I got out of it.
The Kid turned to the Frenchman again. The Frenchman had used the time spent in this side-play to pocket the gems.