"Oh, God!" she cried.
"So that's what you are, are you--a stool-pigeon for the cops? Well,
whatever you told them, you lie! You're the curse of this neighbourhood,
you are, and if my Mike is bad at all, it's you that's helped to make
him bad. But murder--you LIE!"
She had risen slowly from the bed--a gaunt, pitiful figure, pitifully
clothed, the black hair, gray-streaked, streaming thinly over her
shoulders, still clutching the baby that, too, was crying now.
The officers looked at one another and nodded.
"Guess she's handing it straight--we'll have a look on our own hook,"
the leader muttered.
She paid no attention to them--she was walking straight to Jimmie Dale.
"It's you, is it," she whispered fiercely through her sobs "that would
bring more shame and ruin here--you that's selling my man's life away
with your filthy lies for what they're paying you--it's you, is it,
that--" Her voice broke.
There was a frightened, uneasy look in Larry the Bat's eyes, his lips
were twitching weakly, he drew far back against the wall--and then,
glancing miserably at the officers, as though entreating their
permission, began to edge toward the door.
For a moment she watched him, her face white with outrage, her hand
clenched at her side--and then she found her voice again.
"Get out of here!" she said, in a choked, strained way pointing to the
door.
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