“My name is Davis,” he said slowly. “Andrew Davis. I can’t understand why you have come here.”
“‘Andrew Davis,’ eh?” came Clipper’s contemptuous retort. “You’ve got Bodine’s mug. That’s enough to spell curtains for you, wise guy.”
Bodine quivered, and his eyes rolled from side to side, like some hunted beast at bay. He saw Cliff’s dim form in the doorway, but knew that he was viewing another enemy. His expression became more fearful.
Funny, thought Cliff, how the biggest men among gangsters hated to die. Those who ordered death for scores of enemies, underworld czars like Bodine, were the ones who loved life the most!
The helpless man stared at Clipper Tobin and sought to parley as a last resort.
“How much dough do you want?” he questioned hoarsely. “Name it. I’ve got it!”
“You have?” ridiculed Clipper. “Well, you can keep it — but it won’t be yours long. Lay offa that money squawk. I’ve heard it before, and it don’t go. I’ve got my dough for this job, and I go through with it. Savvy?”
BODINE did not reply. Cliff could see the satisfied look upon Clipper’s face. The killer instinct was coming to the fore. Clipper had deliberately waited in order to taunt his helpless victim; now, his gloating finished, he was ready to fire the fatal bullets.
“Ready, Cliff,” came his voice. “Get set for the get-away. I’m goin’ to plug him.”
“Wait!” came Cliff’s quiet response. “Don’t shoot yet! It won’t be good for you, Clipper.”