THE touring car rolled leisurely past the spot where Morris Clarendon awaited certain death. The machine gun remained inactive. Its black muzzle loomed ominously from the curtains, but that was all.
The car moved toward the corner. Then Brodie, amazed by the silence, turned his head.
Like the others, he heard a whispered command.
“Drive on,” ordered the voice from the back seat.
Brodie hesitated for a moment. Then he realized that it was too late to change the situation, whatever might have occurred.
His duty was to make a getaway; the handling of the machine gun belonged to the men in the back seat. The chauffeur pressed the accelerator, and the car whirled rapidly down the broad street.
The automatic was withdrawn from the back of Machine-gun McGinnis. With a cry of anger, the gangster turned to seize the man who held it.
The handle of the revolver dealt him a stunning blow against the side of the head, and he sank beside the machine gun, limp and helpless. Then the muzzle of the automatic brought cold chills to the neck of Brodie the chauffeur.
“Slow down,” ordered the whispered voice.
The chauffeur obeyed.