Hooks took his stand beside an open window. He cast his eye across the little court, and noted that the opposite windows were dark.
“So it’s Carpenter, eh?” sneered Hooks. “Trying to queer our game, eh? We knew you were out of the big house, but we didn’t think you’d be fool enough to run down here. Thought you were safe in your disguise, too. Well, you didn’t fool me!”
Carpenter said nothing. He stared past Hooks, toward the open window.
“Nobody’s looking at us,” jeered Hooks. “That suite’s empty. We know all about it. You’re going to get the works. One shot will finish you.
“It’s going to be sweet for us. The girl gone. A guy found dead. Who is he? Herbert Carpenter, convicted blackmailer. Pulling a kidnapping — shot in the act. Great stuff, Carpenter. You took the rap — you kept mum — you’re the goat, now.”
Carpenter’s eyes shifted to the revolver in Borglund’s hand. That weapon would decide his doom. A single shot would mean the end.
A few nights ago, Carpenter had sought death. Now, life, even with the threat of prison, had become sweet. On the brink of a new career — in the midst of his first attack against crime — he was to die.
There was only one hope — The Shadow. That hope did not mean Carpenter’s salvation; not for a second did he entertain such a fantastic thought.
Even if The Shadow should invade this mob-ruled suite, Borglund would still have time to kill his prisoner. Carpenter’s hope was that The Shadow might be near, to carry on the work that he would be unable to continue.
The lights of the board walk glowed from far below. The roar of the surf, the dull murmur of the crowd — these would drown the sound of the fatal shot. Hooks Borglund’s finger was on the trigger; in another second, Herbert Carpenter would lie dead.