The two in uniform picked Yakima Shorty up by legs and armpits and went away with him, while one of the others gathered up the blackjack and a flashlight that had been under the body.
“If everybody did that to their prowlers, it would certainly be fine,” the chief babbled on. He brought three cigars out of a pocket, threw one over on the bed, stuck one at me, and put the other in his mouth. “I was just wondering where I could get hold of you,” he told me as we lighted up. “I got a little job ahead that I thought you’d like to be in on. That’s how I happened to be on tap when the rumble came.” He put his mouth close to my ear and whispered: “Going to pick up Whisper. Want to go along?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you would. Hello, Doc!”
He shook hands with a man who had just come in, a little plump man with a tired oval face and gray eyes that still had sleep in them.
The doctor went to the bed, where one of Noonan’s men was asking Willsson about the shooting. I followed the secretary into the hall and asked him:
“Any men in the house besides you?”
“Yes, the chauffeur, the Chinese cook.”
“Let the chauffeur stay in the old man’s room tonight. I’m going out with Noonan. I’ll get back as soon as I can. I don’t think there’ll be any more excitement here, but no matter what happens don’t leave the old man alone. And don’t leave him alone with Noonan or any of Noonan’s crew.”
The secretary’s mouth and eyes popped wide.