Nor, for the same reason, would he dare move from the place
for some little time--there was Foo Sen and the attendants.
Jimmie Dale dropped his head down on the bunk, turned heavily over,
facing the partition, and flung his arm across his face. His lips had
ceased their nervous working; they were drawn together, thin and hard
now. It was bad enough to be forced to remain temporarily inactive,
though that in itself was not so serious, for it was still early, not
much more than nine o'clock, and it was only fair to presume that the
Rat would make no move for some hours to come; but what was much more
serious was the fact that, unable to follow the Rat, he would be obliged
to solve for himself the problem of whose was the safe, and whose the
fifteen thousand dollars that was the Rat's objective. The Rat had
referred to "the old guy"--that meant nothing. "Curley," however, was a
little better--Curley, who had paid over the money to the "old guy."
Jimmie Dale's forehead, hidden by his arm, furrowed deeply. From Muggy
Ladd's initial objection to touching anything that concerned Curley, it
could mean only one Curley. He, Jimmie Dale, knew this Curley by sight,
and, slightly, by reputation.
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