They knew that he had been momentarily amazed by the boldness of his mission; but they had also anticipated that his pride in his own prowess would dominate his actions.
In this they were not disappointed. Steve Cronin arose from his chair, pushed his cigarette stump into the ash tray, and swaggered toward the door. There he stopped, extended his arms, and snapped his fingers.
“Morris Clarendon,” he said, with a short laugh. “What does he mean? They’re all alike to me. Guess they’re all the same to McGinnis, too. Where are we going to knock him off?”
“McGinnis will tell you that,” said Savoli.
“O.K.,” answered Steve Cronin. “Is that all?”
“That’s all,” said Savoli.
Cronin waved his hand in farewell and left the room, rang for the elevator and went downstairs.
“Wait a minute, Steve,” said the operator, as they reached the ground floor. “Stay right here a minute.”
He went to the front door, and peered in both directions, along the street. Then he returned.
“What’s up, kid?” questioned Cronin.