heavy front door thudded, stuck, then burst in, taking half the frame along with it. The big fellow stepped into a front hall. He loomed there—alone. And in the house was not a tick of sound.
“Hey!” he yelled.
No answer.
“Mr. Leon—”
He started forward, but stopped at the first doorway. The furniture inside was sheeted. So was the stuff in all the other rooms.
Only the hall was normal, with chairs uncovered. The house was closed. Lansing wasn’t here. No one was. But Leon had been admitted by a man in livery.
The giant hurried with increasing speed from room to room. All were empty. His employer wasn’t in that house. He raced to the back, along the covered tunnel to the garage, which backed on an alley. Reason told him that Leon had been taken out here. But instinct held a superstitious turn.
It was as if the man had stepped into that house—and in it vanished into thin air! The chauffeur raced back to the town car.
In the clear May sunlight, a small closed truck drove along the residential section. On its sides was lettered: “Buffalo Malt Products Co.” A thin fellow with a cap pulled low and a cigarette dangling from a corner of a slack mouth was alone in the cab.
Behind, were three men. Two were of a piece with the ratlike driver. The third was Leon.
Leon lay on the floor of the truck, breathing heavily, face blue-white. One of the men was holding a soaked rag to his nose. The other suddenly grabbed it away.
“Hey! Easy on that chloroform. Don’t croak the old goat!”
“Ah-h-h! So what? He’ll probably get it anyway.”
“Not for a while, he won’t. The boss has got ideas about him.”
The man with the rag was scowling, but he’d taken it away from Leon’s nostrils.
“Sure,” he complained. “Sure. The boss has ideas. But what ideas? Did it ever strike you that nobody ever tells us guys anything? The ‘boss,’ whoever he is, gives orders to do something, so we do it. He says not to do something, so we don’t do it. But nobody ever whispers a word of what it’s all about”
The other man looked actually frightened for a minute.
“Shut up, you dummy! This is one play where it ain’t wise to know too much. It’s big. A big shot or two’s behind it. There’s plenty of protection. That’s all we need to know.”
“It ain’t all I need. I like to have a foot in the door when I do things. I don’t like to play ’em blind.”
The other man was silent a moment, ratlike eyes on his pal’s face.
“The last guy talked like that,” he said finally, “got picked up in a ditch with a couple pounds of lead in him. This is so big nobody’s supposed to ask questions.”
“I’ll take my chances,” the other said arrogantly. “I’m going to nose around and find out some things. You wait and see!”
His pal glanced through the small window ahead, and saw over the driver’s shoulder, through the windshield, that the little truck was coasting along a street where vacant lots were the rule and houses the exception. He whirled back.
“Pete!” croaked the man with the rag suddenly, voice hoarse.
He stared into the automatic that had appeared in Pete’s hand.
“Pete—”
The gun moved forward a little.
“Pete . . . I didn’t mean it! I don’t care what’s behind this. I won’t try to find out anything.”
Pete was silent.
“You can’t do a thing like this, Pete! Why, we’re pals. We been together for six years. We did time together. Now you can’t rub me out just because—”
The gun jabbed forward still farther.
The explosion, muffled by the man’s clothes and body, wasn’t loud. The noise of the truck helped muffle it. And anyhow, there was no one around on that outlying street to hear.
The man sagged, with the chloroform rag dropping from his limp hand. He died staring at Pete’s face, unbelievingly, pleadingly. And Pete stared back with his mouth working.
In Pete’s eyes could be read regret—but also a fear of somebody or something so
“Hey!” he yelled.
No answer.
“Mr. Leon—”
He started forward, but stopped at the first doorway. The furniture inside was sheeted. So was the stuff in all the other rooms.
Only the hall was normal, with chairs uncovered. The house was closed. Lansing wasn’t here. No one was. But Leon had been admitted by a man in livery.
The giant hurried with increasing speed from room to room. All were empty. His employer wasn’t in that house. He raced to the back, along the covered tunnel to the garage, which backed on an alley. Reason told him that Leon had been taken out here. But instinct held a superstitious turn.
It was as if the man had stepped into that house—and in it vanished into thin air! The chauffeur raced back to the town car.
In the clear May sunlight, a small closed truck drove along the residential section. On its sides was lettered: “Buffalo Malt Products Co.” A thin fellow with a cap pulled low and a cigarette dangling from a corner of a slack mouth was alone in the cab.
Behind, were three men. Two were of a piece with the ratlike driver. The third was Leon.
Leon lay on the floor of the truck, breathing heavily, face blue-white. One of the men was holding a soaked rag to his nose. The other suddenly grabbed it away.
“Hey! Easy on that chloroform. Don’t croak the old goat!”
“Ah-h-h! So what? He’ll probably get it anyway.”
“Not for a while, he won’t. The boss has got ideas about him.”
The man with the rag was scowling, but he’d taken it away from Leon’s nostrils.
“Sure,” he complained. “Sure. The boss has ideas. But what ideas? Did it ever strike you that nobody ever tells us guys anything? The ‘boss,’ whoever he is, gives orders to do something, so we do it. He says not to do something, so we don’t do it. But nobody ever whispers a word of what it’s all about”
The other man looked actually frightened for a minute.
“Shut up, you dummy! This is one play where it ain’t wise to know too much. It’s big. A big shot or two’s behind it. There’s plenty of protection. That’s all we need to know.”
“It ain’t all I need. I like to have a foot in the door when I do things. I don’t like to play ’em blind.”
The other man was silent a moment, ratlike eyes on his pal’s face.
“The last guy talked like that,” he said finally, “got picked up in a ditch with a couple pounds of lead in him. This is so big nobody’s supposed to ask questions.”
“I’ll take my chances,” the other said arrogantly. “I’m going to nose around and find out some things. You wait and see!”
His pal glanced through the small window ahead, and saw over the driver’s shoulder, through the windshield, that the little truck was coasting along a street where vacant lots were the rule and houses the exception. He whirled back.
“Pete!” croaked the man with the rag suddenly, voice hoarse.
He stared into the automatic that had appeared in Pete’s hand.
“Pete—”
The gun moved forward a little.
“Pete . . . I didn’t mean it! I don’t care what’s behind this. I won’t try to find out anything.”
Pete was silent.
“You can’t do a thing like this, Pete! Why, we’re pals. We been together for six years. We did time together. Now you can’t rub me out just because—”
The gun jabbed forward still farther.
The explosion, muffled by the man’s clothes and body, wasn’t loud. The noise of the truck helped muffle it. And anyhow, there was no one around on that outlying street to hear.
The man sagged, with the chloroform rag dropping from his limp hand. He died staring at Pete’s face, unbelievingly, pleadingly. And Pete stared back with his mouth working.
In Pete’s eyes could be read regret—but also a fear of somebody or something so
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