Noonan winced, started to look up at me, changed his mind, and repeated:
“God knows.”
I went at him from another angle:
“Anybody knocked off in the battle at the Silver Arrow last night?”
“Only three.”
“Who were they?”
“A pair of Johnson-brothers named Blackie Whalen and Put Collings that only got out on bail around five yesterday, and Dutch Jake Wahl, a guerrilla.”
“What was it all about?”
“Just a roughhouse, I guess. It seems that Put and Blackie and the others that got out with them were celebrating with a lot of friends, and it wound up in smoke.”
“All of them Lew Yard’s men?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” he said.
I got up, said, “Oh, all right,” and started for the door.
“Wait,” he called. “Don’t run off like that. I guess they were.”
I came back to my chair. Noonan watched the top of his desk. His face was gray, flabby, damp, like fresh putty.
“Whisper’s staying at Willsson’s,” I told him.
He jerked his head up. His eyes darkened. Then his mouth twitched, and he let his head sag again. His eyes faded.