As the three of them trotted down the steps into the sub-cellar, they could hear the bark of guns. They came into a broad low-ceilinged vault. There was a glass cigar counter and a cash register on the right. The cigar counter was filled with revolvers and boxes of ammunition. Behind it was a high display case with heavy glass doors. Inside were more guns and six silver trophies.
On the left, from wall to wall, was a line of open booths with waist-high shelves dimly lit by green shaded lamps. Through the booths was the vista of a sixty foot stretch of cellar, brilliantly illuminated. The far wall was the shooting butt, heavily pocked with bullet holes. Steel trolley wires led from each booth to the butt, and along several of these, cardboard targets were sailing out to the far wall. An intermittent barrage of shots came from the booths where men were silhouetted against the light, standing with guns raised in their right hands, their left hands resting jauntily on their hips.
A square-jawed gladiator in blue serge came around from behind the cigar counter and welcomed them. He was delighted to see Lennox.
"Hey," he said in a soft, sweet voice. "It's the Philadelphia Fox again." He shook hands. "I thought you had to go home to the wife for the holidays. She come here instead, huh?"
Lennox flushed and stammered. Suddenly he burst out: "You're the Killer. I remember now. The Killer."
"Oh, that's not nice," Gabby said.
"It's just his joke," the Killer grinned shyly. "He kept calling me that Saturday. My name's Hamburger, Mrs. Fox."
"Jordan," Gabby began. "You'd better explain that—"
"Oh no. No," the Shroff interrupted, beaming madly. "Ah nothing to explain, Missuhs Fox. Ah nothing."
There was an awkward pause, then Gabby turned to the gladiator. "Why did my—Why did he call you a killer, Mr. Hamburger?"