“What's th' row?” demanded Tony, coming to the foot of the stairs.
At the Dropper's request, Tony brought a candle, used by him in excursions to those crypts wherein he kept his whiskey.
In a moment all was plain. That something soft which had so told upon the Wop was a rubber tube. There was a gas jet in the hall. One end of the rubber tube had been fastened over the gas jet, and the other stuffed into the keyhole of Mike's door. Trap arranged, the gas had been set flowing full blast.
“Well, what do youse think of that?” exclaimed Tony, who understood at a glance.
With one swift move, Tony turned off the gas and tore away the rubber tube. There was no talk of keys. He placed his powerful shoulder against the door, and sent it crashing. The out-rush of gas drove them, choking and gasping, into the open air.
“Take it from me,” said the Dropper, as soon as he could get his breath, “they've croaked Mike.”
“But the window,” urged the Nailer; “mebbe Mike has the window open!”
“Not a chance!” retorted the Dropper. “No one has his window up while he hits th' pipe. They don't jibe, fresh air an' dope.”
The Dropper was right. Big Mike, stark and still and yellow, lay dead in his bed—the last place his friends would have anticipated—poisoned by gas.
“Better notify th' cops,” advised Jimmy, the practical.