Thus it was that Big Tom Bagshawe made his break. He knew that he was trapped; that his part in crime would soon be known. He had been double-crossed. Wheels Bryant had gone with the swag. Big Tom’s only hope was escape.
The picture of dejection, he eluded watchfulness. Suddenly, his big form came to life. Bagshawe leaped to his feet, pulling a revolver from his pocket. He lunged toward the door, turning to fire at the officers. To a man, they ducked.
A policeman, entering the office, blocked the gambler’s path. Big Tom shot at him. The officer fell. But Police Chief Yates, who had dropped behind the desk, came up to aid. Big Tom, framed in the doorway, was a perfect target. The automatic went off. The huge gambling king crashed to the floor.
Chief Yates sank into the chair behind the desk. Coldly, he looked at the distant form of Big Tom Bagshawe. Others were bending over the gambling king.
“He’s dead,” came the information.
“Just as well,” said Yates.
The police chief pressed his hand against the desk. His thumb encountered the key that Big Tom had left there. Yates turned it in the lock, wondering its purpose. He leaned his hands upon the edge of the desk while he peered over to see if there was a drawer upon the other side.
The flat top slid suddenly, and the police chief was nearly precipitated into the hollow space. He found himself staring down into a black shaft. “Say!” he shouted. “This is the way Wheels Bryant went! Down through here!”
EAGER men were staring into the hole. Yates pressed the lever. The sound of the rising elevator was heard. The policemen exchanged surprised glances as they heard the noise.
“But how” — one asked — “say — the Club Catalina is right under here — how does that work out? It doesn’t go through the middle of the dance floor right—”