The command came from Spirak. It was scarcely necessary, for most of the men in the room had unconsciously obeyed the moment that they had seen the guns. Harry Vincent did not realize that his hands were above his head until he looked upward and saw them.
Hymie Schultz, laughing sarcastically, was advancing toward the roulette tables, where the helpless croupiers were standing.
He had pocketed one gun now, to free his left hand for the task of gathering up the money that still lay in view. But he had nothing to fear. Spirak was covering every one with his automatics, and he had two reserve revolvers in the inside of his coat.
“Stick ‘em up!”
The command was repeated by Spirak, an instant after his first cry, while Schultz was still advancing toward the wheels.
Harry glanced to his right, and saw the object of Spirak’s threat. It was Monk Thurman, still slouched against the bar, who had not heeded Spirak’s command.
The New York gunman was still in his stupor. Evidently he had not been conscious of anything that had happened. Even now, he was still oblivious, and made no sign of response.
FOUR-GUN SPIRAK hesitated only a brief moment. Evidently he and Schultz had no desire to use ammunition in the gambling den, even though shots had been fired outside. But Spirak was going to take no chances, even with a man who seemed unconscious.
Le Blanc kicked Monk Thurman, but the New Yorker made no response. That was his last chance.
Spirak swung the muzzle of one automatic in the direction of the man who was slouching on the bar, and the killer pressed his finger against the trigger.