Old thoughts of blackmail came to his mind. Here, with the season drawing to a close, the wealthiest of visitors were present. But Carpenter knew that his game was ended. Not only that — he felt a strange distaste for crime. He had learned that it did not pay.
Paradoxically, Carpenter had no qualms about accepting funds. He felt that a share of the crime kings’ spoils belonged to him. He had contributed to their coffers. He had taken the rap.
A pay-off — that was what he wanted! Then he would be through. Out of the country — South America — freedom — a new start!
He pictured himself, far away, rejoined by Madge and the children. That was his goal. To reach it, he must play a bold stroke, and gain some of the spoils that belonged to him. As he dwelt upon these thoughts, Carpenter experienced another urge. Vengeance!
If only he were free to deal with Wheels Bryant and the others as they deserved! Double-crossers — four of them! Carpenter’s lips tightened in disdain.
A bell boy was approaching. Carpenter shrank back in his chair. He feared that the attendant might be looking for Howard Seabrook. Instead, the boy walked past and stopped at a chair where an elderly gentleman was seated.
“You are Mr. Phineas Twambley?” the boy asked.
“Yes,” replied the old gentleman, in a quavering voice.
“A call for you, sir.”
Phineas Twambley arose. Herbert Carpenter watched him curiously. The old man was a strange figure. His stooping shoulders seemed to rely upon the gold-headed cane which his clawlike hand clutched. His face was smooth and benign — a countenance that reflected a life of gentle mildness.