“Lay low,” he whispered. “Make it look like the car was empty. We’ll get the typewriter ready in a minute.”
In gangland’s parlance, the word typewriter meant machine gun; the instrument of death was so called because its rapid clicks resembled the noise of typewriter keys.
“We’re working from this side,” explained McGinnis. “This guy Clarendon is something of a dumb cluck, even though he thinks he’s smart. He’s going to be waiting on the corner for us.”
“How was that fixed?” asked Cronin.
“I don’t know,” replied McGinnis. “But he fell for some line of hokum, or he wouldn’t be there now. There’s just a chance that we won’t find him, but Borrango says that he’ll be there, sure.”
The automobile swung into a wide street. Far up ahead an electric sign displayed the name of Birch.
“That’s the spot, up ahead,” whispered McGinnis to Cronin, preparing the gun for action. “He ought to be outside right now.”
As a matter of fact, Morris Clarendon was outside of Birch’s drug store at that very moment. He had been waiting for more than fifteen minutes, and he intended to wait indefinitely. For the assistant prosecutor had arranged a meeting, at that place, with a man whom he believed would be an important material witness in a forthcoming trial.
Clarendon did not know that the person whom he expected would never keep the appointment. Gangsters had killed the man two nights before, and the victim’s body had not yet been found.
Savoli’s emissaries were thorough in their methods. They had learned of the rendezvous, and they knew that Clarendon had promised to wait until his man arrived. The drug store had been chosen as a meeting place because it was in a district unfrequented by gangsters.