The death of Joel Caulkins had also caused a stir. The reporter had known many gangsters. His death, by gunfire, savored more of the gorilla killing than did the demise of Philip Farmington.
Double Z was a constant subject of whispered speculation in the underworld, and his strange soubriquet had been mentioned often at Black Pete’s.
NIGHT had fallen, and the cabaret was doing its usual business. Little attention was paid to those who sat at obscure tables in the background. Occasionally a hard-faced individual arose and strolled through the portal to the nearest passage. Others, more indifferent, made directly for the side doors upon entering the place.
Among the latter type was a short, stocky man who wore a dark sweater beneath his coat. His cap, tilted over his eyes, obscured his features. He cast a brief glance at the cabaret floor as he entered; then stalked through the doorway and was lost in darkness.
He felt his way along the passage and stopped before a door. He stooped down an instant to knock at the bottom of the barrier.
From the other side came the sound of a key turning in the lock, then the door opened. The man entered.
A moment later the stocky man was seated at a small table, staring stolidly at a man facing him. The newcomer, Jake, had a cold, hard face, with an ugly, pudgy nose; but the man who had awaited him possessed a still harsher appearance.
Seated at the table, he appeared tall. Actually, he was of medium height. His thinness gave him the semblance of stature. His face, like his body, was thin. His cheeks were hollow and pasty. From either side of his hooked nose peered two beady eyes.
His lips were parted to reveal pointed, fanglike teeth. His entire physiognomy betokened an inborn cruelty and ugliness. The man was hatless. His head was covered with a crop of short-clipped black hair.
“Well, Jake,” quizzed the fang-toothed mobster, “is it fixed?”