“I’m sorry.”
“We won’t fight over it,” I said, giving it up and starting back toward the bedroom door.
The doctor came out, buttoning his overcoat.
“He will sleep now,” he said hurriedly. “Someone should stay with him. I shall be in in the morning.” He ran downstairs.
I went into the bedroom. The chief and the man who had questioned Willsson were standing by the bed. The chief grinned as if he were glad to see me. The other man scowled. Willsson was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.
“That’s about all there is here,” Noonan said. “What say we mosey along?”
I agreed and said, “Good night,” to the old man. He said, “Good night,” without looking at me. The secretary came in with the chauffeur, a tall sunburned young husky.
The chief, the other sleuth—a police lieutenant named McGraw—and I went downstairs and got into the chief’s car. McGraw sat beside the driver. The chief and I sat in back.
“We’ll make the pinch along about daylight,” Noonan explained as we rode. “Whisper’s got a joint over on King Street. He generally leaves there along about daylight. We could crash the place, but that’d mean gunplay, and it’s just as well to take it easy. We’ll pick him up when he leaves.”
I wondered if he meant pick him up or pick him off. I asked:
“Got enough on him to make the rap stick?”