Whisper’s Joint
Our ride ended under a line of trees in a dark street not far from the center of town. We got out of the car and walked down to the corner.
A burly man in a gray overcoat, with a gray hat pulled down over his eyes, came to meet us.
“Whisper’s hep,” the burly man told the chief. “He phoned Donohoe that he’s going to stay in his joint. If you think you can pull him out, try it, he says.”
Noonan chuckled, scratched an ear, and asked pleasantly:
“How many would you say was in there with him?”
“Fifty, anyhow.”
“Aw, now! There wouldn’t be that many, not at this time of morning.”
“The hell there wouldn’t,” the burly man snarled. “They been drifting in since midnight.”
“Is that so? A leak somewheres. Maybe you oughtn’t to have let them in.”
“Maybe I oughtn’t.” The burly man was angry. “But I did what you told me. You said let anybody go in or out that wanted to, but when Whisper showed to—”
“To pinch him,” the chief said.
“Well, yes,” the burly man agreed, looking savagely at me.