In deliberate fashion, Cranston arose from his chair and pocketed his automatic. He walked toward the door, and stopped there to fix a stern gaze upon Big Tom Bagshawe. Slumped in his chair, the famous gambler had all the semblance of a beaten man. His eyes were beady as they flinched before Cranston’s impassive stare.
“I regret that I must leave you,” remarked Cranston, in a tone tinged with sarcasm. “However, your plight is not so great as you would have me believe. You can find money, Bagshawe” — there was significance in the words — “from the same source of supply you used before. Sometime, however, that source will be cut off.”
The words left Big Tom wondering. Did this cool man know of the gambler’s connection with Wheels Bryant?
“I have other work to do tonight,” resumed Cranston. “One rat has squealed. Perhaps another will do the same. Heed my warning, Bagshawe! Remain inactive in this office until I have been gone fifteen minutes. Otherwise—”
Cranston tapped the pocket where he had placed the automatic. Big Tom nodded to show that he understood. The bulky man was completely cowed.
LAMONT CRANSTON left the office and quietly closed the door behind him. He strolled across the floor, carelessly watching the attendants in their work of camouflage. He reached the door that led to the outer room.
At that moment, one of the attendants called to another to help him move a table. Neither man was watching Cranston, but the millionaire stopped, with his hand upon the outer door. His lips formed a disdainful smile as his right hand slid into his pocket. He had sensed that the call was a signal.
With a sudden move, Cranston drew open the door and stepped into the anteroom. Without a moment’s hesitation, he swung to the side and encountered a powerful, hard-faced man who was standing there. The fellow’s right hand was raised; in his fist he clutched a blackjack.
Cranston’s automatic was in readiness, but he did not use it. The would-be thug was starting a downward swing with the blackjack. Cranston sidestepped the falling blow, and his left fist shot upward in a short, swift punch. The uppercut struck his assailant’s unguarded chin. The big fellow swayed and crumpled in a heap.
Even while the man was falling, Cranston made a new move. He sprang past the dropping body, and crouched behind it, facing the opposite direction. He was not a moment too soon. Two other men, momentarily astonished by their companion’s sudden collapse, came leaping forward.