Advice came from indoors:
“Get away from there while you’re able.”
It was a muffled voice, but not a whisper, so probably not Whisper’s.
“I want to talk to Thaler,” I said.
“Go talk to the lard-can that sent you.”
“I’m not talking for Noonan. Is Thaler where he can hear me?”
A pause. Then the muffled voice said: “Yes.”
“I’m the Continental op who tipped Dinah Brand off that Noonan was framing you,” I said. “I want five minutes’ talk with you. I’ve got nothing to do with Noonan except to queer his racket. I’m alone. I’ll drop my rod in the street if you say so. Let me in.”
I waited. It depended on whether the girl had got to him with the story of my interview with her. I waited what seemed a long time.
The muffled voice said:
“When we open, come in quick. And no stunts.”
“All set.”
The latch clicked. I plunged in with the door.
Across the street a dozen guns emptied themselves. Glass shot from door and windows tinkled around us.
Somebody tripped me. Fear gave me three brains and half a dozen eyes. I was in a tough spot. Noonan had slipped me a pretty dose. These birds couldn’t help thinking I was playing his game.