Larrigan drove leisurely along a wide street; then turned into a less traveled thoroughfare. He was watching the road ahead; hence he was completely surprised when he felt the muzzle of an automatic between his shoulders.
“Keep on!” said a rasping voice.
It was Monk Thurman!
Larrigan growled in astonishment. Nevertheless, he continued to drive ahead. He cursed himself for his foolishness. He had brought no one with him; that was bad enough. But he had been guilty of a greater error; he had failed to look in the rear seat.
The car had been locked all evening. Somehow, Monk Thurman had entered and yet left no evidence.
“You didn’t expect to meet me so soon, did you?” jeered Thurman, from the back seat. “Well, here I am, and we’re going for a ride. How do you like that, Larrigan?”
The Irishman did not reply. He was scheming to wreck the car; but he saw no opportunity. He well knew the ability of Monk Thurman. One false move, and Mike Larrigan would be no more. So he drove grimly ahead, even though he was sure that death lay at the end of this journey.
“You like to get them in the dark, don’t you?” continued Monk. “That’s the way Schultz and Spirak worked. Don’t give a man a chance. Good idea — it all depends on the man.”
He laughed hoarsely. The New York gangster was enjoying the ride. Larrigan fumed at his helplessness.
THE car rolled on in silence. They were outside the city limits, bound for the country, where lonely roads were many, and chances of safety were few. Monk Thurman directed Larrigan.