“He will be useful to us, Mike,” he said. “Useful while we need him, and then — “
The big shot raised his forefinger and poked it into Borrango’s side, in semblance of a gangster’s handling of an automatic.
Then he turned and left the library, with the enforcer at his heels.
THE door to the fire escape was at the end of the elevator hall. It was a large door, covered with sheet metal. The door began to move slightly, as though some one was working on it, from the fire tower.
Then it opened outward, and a tall, slim, black-clad form slipped through the doorway. With long, noiseless strides, the unexpected visitor moved to the iron gate.
This man was inconspicuous in the dimly lighted hall. Hidden beneath his black cloak, his face concealed by the turned-down brim of a soft black hat, he seemed like some monstrous bat.
Only his fingers were in view; long, tapering fingers that held a sharp-pointed instrument. The formidable lock clicked beneath his hands. He opened the iron gate, and entered the antechamber, closing the grilled barrier behind him.
The library door was unlocked. The man in black entered the large room. He trod silently over the thick rug, and slipped into a chair.
He was the third man to occupy that seat. First, Steve Cronin had been there; then the famous Monk Thurman.
This third man was a more sinister figure than either of the others. He seemed to become lifeless as he sat there, almost as though expecting the entrance of Nick Savoli and Mike Borrango.