She was dressed for action in a pair of blue pants that were probably Pogy’s, beaded moccasins, a silk waist. A ribbon held her curly yellow hair back from her face. She had a gun in one hand, one in each hip pocket.
The one in her hand swung up.
“You’re done,” she told me, quite matter-of-fact.
My newly acquired confederate whined, “Wait, wait, Flora! Not here like this, please! Let me take him into the cellar.”
She scowled at him, shrugging her silken shoulders.
“Make it quick,” she said. “It’ll be light in another half-hour.”
I felt too much like crying to laugh at them. Was I supposed to think this woman would let the rabbit change her plans? I suppose I must have put some value on the old gink’s help, or I wouldn’t have been so disappointed when this little comedy told me it was a frame-up. But any hole they worked me into couldn’t be any worse than the one I was in.
So I went ahead of the old man into the hall, opened the door he indicated, switched on the basement light, and went down the rough steps.
Close behind me he was whispering, “I’ll first show you the moneys, and then I will give to you those devils. And you will not forget your promise? I and that girl shall go out through the police?”
“Oh, yes,” I assured the old joker.