Anelmo took the wheel beside the prisoner. Genara ducked into the back seat, with his automatic at the ready.
As they drove along busy thoroughfares, Harry Vincent endured that mental anguish that has gripped many gangsters. He was being taken for a ride; a one-way ride, from which there could be no turning back.
He knew now why other spotted men had gone to meet death without an outcry. The steadily leveled automatic from behind was a sure silencer. As long as the road lay ahead, there was still a slim sliver of hope. A false move, and all hope would be blotted out instantly.
Somehow, Harry’s true connection with The Shadow had been discovered. Yet it seemed incredible that the Homicide Twins would act without first consulting Frank Marmosa.
In thinking this, Harry failed to realize the true state of affairs. Had he seen Marmosa at that very minute, he would have been enlightened.
The proprietor of the gambling den had taken over the duties of Harry Vincent. He himself was watching the patrons of his establishment. Steve Cronin was on the inside, in place of the Homicide Twins.
Marmosa had neglected to tell Harry that his mission to the bootblack shop was planned to spring a trap.
And now Frank Marmosa had forgotten Harry Vincent. It often paid to forget people in Chicago. The one hope that Harry held — that Marmosa would wonder about his absence — was a false one.
For while Harry pondered on that very matter, Frank Marmosa was smiling as he ushered one of his patrons to the door. It was the gray-haired man, who had lost so heavily.
THE sedan rolled into a squalid district. Harry had no idea whatever as to the location. He was only partly familiar with Chicago, and he had lost all sense of direction.