With their eyes peering from the curtains, these grim men gave no thought to the blackness that surrounded them in the back seat of the touring car.
As for Brodie, the chauffeur, his thoughts were completely away from the scene.
He had picked the route which he intended to follow. The work of execution belonged to the others. He was ready to swing down the street to safety, and he was oblivious to anything but his duties as driver.
Machine-gun McGinnis rested his finger on the trigger with a professional air. He was picking the exact moment to release the hail of steel-jacketed bullets that would seal the fate of Morris Clarendon.
But before his finger moved, he received the greatest surprise of his career. As if from nowhere, the end of a steel rod was pressed into the small of his back.
Steve Cronin, close beside McGinnis, received the same token at that precise instant. Like McGinnis, he knew the feel of the muzzle of an automatic.
Then there came low-whispered words from the darkness of the back seat. A weird, uncanny voice spoke in sinister tones.
“If you fire, you die!”
There was no mistaking the terms. Machine-gun McGinnis, intrepid gangster that he was, felt his finger tremble. He instinctively removed it from the trigger of the weapon.
Steve Cronin was even more perturbed. He had heard that voice before. He slumped to the floor of the car, completely overcome by fear.