The Hawk replaced the receiver on the hook, and the instrument on the table.
The Butcher's lips were livid.
The Hawk picked up his automatic and leaned forward, his eyes on a level with the Butcher's.
“What's that fellow's moniker, Butcher?”
The Butcher hesitated.
The automatic crept forward an inch.
“Parson Joe.” The Butcher's voice choked with mingled rage and fear.
“Parson Joe, eh?” repeated the Hawk ruminatingly. “Was he the chap who pulled that con game on the Riverdale Bank back in New York State about six years ago, and afterwards got cornered by the police in Ike Morrissey's gambling hell, and was caught because he nearly bled to death, with his wrist half off, trying to get through a broken window pane? He got four spaces. That him?”
“If you say so, it must have been!” There was a leer in the Butcher's voice.
“Was it?” The automatic touched the Butcher's breast.