The big Cadillac swung through the open gates of Maurer’s estate and drove rapidly up the drive. In the bright morning sunshine, Gollowitz noticed a number of men moving about the grounds.
“Who are these guys?” he asked. “What are they doing here?”
“Just a precaution,” Maurer returned. “I don’t believe in taking risks. If Ferrari tries any of his tricks on me it’ll be just too bad for him.”
Gollowitz didn’t say anything, but he felt a chill run down his fat spine. Did Maurer really believe these gunmen could protect him from Ferrari if Ferrari once made up his mind to kill him, he wondered. Was he such a blind, arrogant fool?
The car pulled up outside the imposing entrance.
“Okay, Abe, get those lists for me, and be here for lunch. The yacht’s standing by. I may be leaving tonight,” Maurer said, as he heaved himself out of the car.
“Jack,” Gollowitz said huskily, “what’s going to happen to me if you go away?”
Maurer stared at him as if he wasn’t sure if he had heard aright.
“You?” he said, and frowned. “Well, I guess you’ll manage. Maybe Big Joe will find something for you. Maybe he’ll give you my job. You’re big enough to look after yourself, aren’t you?” He grinned wolfishly. “Maybe I might have an idea or two for you when you come back for lunch.”
He walked into the house, leaving Gollowitz sitting in a fat hopeless heap in the car. “