Steve Cronin found the back stairs, and groped his way down through the darkness. He stumbled once or twice, and made some noise despite his carefulness, for the stairs were rough and winding.
The man who followed him made no noise. He moved silently, as though possessed of eyesight that could see through the darkness.
Steve Cronin opened the back door and closed it behind him. He had not gone more than thirty feet along the alley before the door again opened, just far enough to allow passage for the form of a tall, thin man.
Cronin happened to glance backward at that particular moment, yet he saw nothing. For the door had opened softly and slowly, and the man who had come through the opening was clad in a black cloak that made him invisible in the gloom of the alley.
TWENTY minutes later, Steve Cronin arrived at Hallahan’s garage. He glanced up and down the street before he entered the building. Then he stepped through the doorway, and immediately spotted the touring car for which he was looking.
The automobile stood in an obscure corner. The gangster walked to it, unobserved, and climbed in the large back seat. He noted that the flap curtains were on the sides of the car. That was natural, for the night was cloudy, and rain was threatening.
A voice spoke from the darkness.
“That you, Cronin?”
“Right.”
“Lay low then. I’m McGinnis. We’ve got a couple of minutes to wait for Brodie. He’s driving us to night.”