sisting continually the impulse to turn around, to assure himself of what he already knew, that Slim was actually alert each moment to discipline his slightest effort at escape.
They crossed the damp spaces of the cellar and climbed the stairs, pausing at the head until they could be certain Marlowe's evil figure still faced a bar-room, significantly empty.
George hurried to the telephone booth, fastening the door behind him so that Garth could hear nothing. Marlowe wiped his hands on his apron. A sly smile twitched at the corners of his colorless lips.
"Well! Well! Who's rented the warehouse? Who are your pals, Mr. Garth?"
Garth kept his back turned. The glasses tinkled musically under Marlowe's nervous fingers.
"Maybe you'll name your pleasure, gentlemen."
"Nothing but a little quiet," Slim grunted.
Marlowe flung up his hands, indicating a profound disapproval.
"Then what you mean coming through my cellar? That might get me in bad with the cops. Or maybe you're detectives like Mr. Garth?"
Slim responded to the strain of this waiting. He turned angrily on the man.
"How often have I told you, Papa Marlowe, to keep your fat mouth shut?"
For Garth that outburst pitilessly defined the new element. Slim's anger had let slip real evidence of the proprietor's lawless connection with the gang;
