on gettin’ rid of that white-headed guy—and the sandy-headed Scotch rat that works for him.”
This was Buddy Wilson, leader of the underworld in Ashton City.
Norman Vautry’s voice came from under a mask across the table.
“There may be more working for Benson than just the Scotchman.”
“We’ll know that soon,” said Sisco. “One reason we’re here tonight is to get that report from New York on Benson.”
The man next to Vautry said: “I can’t believe that one man could upset things so.” This man was John M. Singell, proprietor of the Sweet Valley Contracting Co., in whose headquarters they now sat.
“I can hardly believe it, myself,” came the voice of the man at the head of the table. This was the one whom nobody knew. Four out of the five at the table knew each other by voice. But no one of the four knew who this fifth man was.
Some big businessman of Ashton City, “high in financial circles.” That was all they knew.
He went on, voice quiet and measured.
“Perhaps we have Arthur Willis, instigator of that bothersome Civic League, to thank for the recent interference.”
“I don’t think it’s Willis,” argued Singell. “We have the police sewed up pretty helplessly. And the Civic League can’t do much real damage without police help.”
“Naw, it ain’t Willis—” Buddy Wilson began.
A man came into the room.
The man was one of Wilson’s imported killers. And his entrance explained the real use of the masks.
The five knew each other, save for the leader himself, so masks were superfluous. But they shielded the faces of the five from their subordinates, so that later no petty murderer could be picked up and grilled and know what men to name behind those shrouding black cloths.
The gunman looked curiously at the masked five, and gave his report, vaguely, to all of them. After he had gone there was quivering silence.
“So the guy had the gall to pretend he was me and get that big truck driver out of the coop!” Sisco grated.
“The hell with that,” snarled Wilson. “He got four of my men, somehow. Four of ’em! Over the cliff and smashed like bugs on the top of a house!”
“They botched their job of trying to get Benson,” said the unknown fifth man. “They deserved what they got.”
“Listen, you—” Wilson rapped.
“No quarreling,” said Singell crisply. “We’ll get nowhere doing that. Ah, here’s the man we’ve been waiting for.”
The man Sisco had sent to New York to get all that was known on Richard Henry Benson, had entered. He was a step above Wilson’s gangsters, in look and intelligence. He stared at the five, no doubt wondering what faces were under the masks, and realizing that he’d probably never know.
“I got it all,” he said. “Some I dug up myself, and some I got from a couple of private-detective agencies.
“Benson is some wealthy sap who fancies himself as an amateur crime fighter. Rich as hell. About five feet eight, with white hair from a nervous shock—”
“We know about him,” the masked leader cut in. “What about those working under him?”
“There’s a colored couple named Josh and Rosabel Newton,” said the man. “They don’t look like much, but they’re as smart as they make ’em.”
There was a sudden, smothered expletive from under Wilson’s mask. The man stared curiously at him, and continued:
“There’s a sandy-haired Scotchman named MacMurdie, who is a famous chemist, and was set up in a drugstore in New York by Benson. But MacMurdie leaves the store and goes with Benson whenever a case breaks.
“There’s a great big fellow, strong enough to be with a circus—”
“That will be this truck driver,” said the masked man at the head of the table. “We had him—and lost him. Go on!”
“Then, there’s a cute little trick you’d never think had anything to do with a guy like Benson. A girl, blond, about as big as a minute. But she can throw men around like umbrellas, I heard. Studied
This was Buddy Wilson, leader of the underworld in Ashton City.
Norman Vautry’s voice came from under a mask across the table.
“There may be more working for Benson than just the Scotchman.”
“We’ll know that soon,” said Sisco. “One reason we’re here tonight is to get that report from New York on Benson.”
The man next to Vautry said: “I can’t believe that one man could upset things so.” This man was John M. Singell, proprietor of the Sweet Valley Contracting Co., in whose headquarters they now sat.
“I can hardly believe it, myself,” came the voice of the man at the head of the table. This was the one whom nobody knew. Four out of the five at the table knew each other by voice. But no one of the four knew who this fifth man was.
Some big businessman of Ashton City, “high in financial circles.” That was all they knew.
He went on, voice quiet and measured.
“Perhaps we have Arthur Willis, instigator of that bothersome Civic League, to thank for the recent interference.”
“I don’t think it’s Willis,” argued Singell. “We have the police sewed up pretty helplessly. And the Civic League can’t do much real damage without police help.”
“Naw, it ain’t Willis—” Buddy Wilson began.
A man came into the room.
The man was one of Wilson’s imported killers. And his entrance explained the real use of the masks.
The five knew each other, save for the leader himself, so masks were superfluous. But they shielded the faces of the five from their subordinates, so that later no petty murderer could be picked up and grilled and know what men to name behind those shrouding black cloths.
The gunman looked curiously at the masked five, and gave his report, vaguely, to all of them. After he had gone there was quivering silence.
“So the guy had the gall to pretend he was me and get that big truck driver out of the coop!” Sisco grated.
“The hell with that,” snarled Wilson. “He got four of my men, somehow. Four of ’em! Over the cliff and smashed like bugs on the top of a house!”
“They botched their job of trying to get Benson,” said the unknown fifth man. “They deserved what they got.”
“Listen, you—” Wilson rapped.
“No quarreling,” said Singell crisply. “We’ll get nowhere doing that. Ah, here’s the man we’ve been waiting for.”
The man Sisco had sent to New York to get all that was known on Richard Henry Benson, had entered. He was a step above Wilson’s gangsters, in look and intelligence. He stared at the five, no doubt wondering what faces were under the masks, and realizing that he’d probably never know.
“I got it all,” he said. “Some I dug up myself, and some I got from a couple of private-detective agencies.
“Benson is some wealthy sap who fancies himself as an amateur crime fighter. Rich as hell. About five feet eight, with white hair from a nervous shock—”
“We know about him,” the masked leader cut in. “What about those working under him?”
“There’s a colored couple named Josh and Rosabel Newton,” said the man. “They don’t look like much, but they’re as smart as they make ’em.”
There was a sudden, smothered expletive from under Wilson’s mask. The man stared curiously at him, and continued:
“There’s a sandy-haired Scotchman named MacMurdie, who is a famous chemist, and was set up in a drugstore in New York by Benson. But MacMurdie leaves the store and goes with Benson whenever a case breaks.
“There’s a great big fellow, strong enough to be with a circus—”
“That will be this truck driver,” said the masked man at the head of the table. “We had him—and lost him. Go on!”
“Then, there’s a cute little trick you’d never think had anything to do with a guy like Benson. A girl, blond, about as big as a minute. But she can throw men around like umbrellas, I heard. Studied
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