Two men sat at a table in a corner of the spacious Club DeLuxe. The popular night club was rarely crowded at nine o’clock on a Wednesday evening. Hence the spot which the men had chosen was well away from observation. No one was within thirty feet of them.
Both men were well dressed. They bore a similarity of appearance. There was one noticeable difference — their expressions. One had a firm face, a steady gaze, and well-chiseled features that gave him a distinctive profile. The other possessed a brutal countenance, sullen and merciless. Facially, there was no resemblance between Cliff Marsland and “Clipper” Tobin.
Cliff replaced his coffee cup on the table. He glanced about him to make sure that no one was near.
Clipper duplicated the action. The closest person was a young man who had taken a table well beyond earshot. Cliff turned toward his companion and put a direct question to the tough-faced gangster.
“Out with it, Clipper,” he said in a low voice. “It’s time I knew the layout for tonight.”
“You’re gettin’ your grand, ain’t you?” came the sullen reply.
“Sure,” said Cliff. “That’s why I want the low-down. If you expect the help you want, you’ve got to shoot straight with me. That’s all.”
“I’m shootin’ straight, Cliff!” retorted Clipper. “‘We ain’t likely to run into no trouble tonight. I’m goin’ to do the job; you’ll be there in case we run into a second guy. We’ve only got to get one gazebo. It don’t take two of us to do that.”
“All right!” said Cliff quietly. “Suppose you go it alone then. I’ll give you back your money.”
Clipper’s eyes sparkled angrily. His vicious glance was met by Cliff Marsland’s firm stare. The tough gangster had met his equal. He realized that he could no longer play pretenses with Cliff Marsland.