“O.K.”
Hooks Borglund hurried from the hotel. He knew that gun play at the Club Catalina meant a serious situation. As a chance visitor after the fray, Borglund would be of great value. Those in the hotel could take care of themselves. They were competent.
“A GUY we’ve got to get—”
That message from Wheels Bryant was puzzling to Hooks Borglund. He wondered who had jammed the works at the gambling joint. Not for one moment did he think of the tall, calm-faced man who had so recently passed him in the lobby.
Had Borglund caught a glimpse of that man now, he would have cursed himself for his folly in not sensing the meaning of the jingle that he had heard. In a room on the fourteenth floor of the Hotel Pavilion, Lamont Cranston was standing by a table near the window. The faintest trace of a smile wreathed those firm lips as Cranston’s eyes looked toward the lighted Club Catalina.
They were looking for him there — scurrying mobsters and incoming police. They were wondering where he had gone. Now, from a veritable watchtower, Lamont Cranston was observing the swarming crowds that were hurrying for a glimpse of the chaos that had been created on his account.
Stepping into the gloom of the dimly lighted room, the hawk-visaged millionaire removed two automatics from his pockets. He carefully reloaded them and placed them on the table. When he extracted stacks of glittering coins, which he piled before him.
A large trunk stood in the corner. Lamont Cranston drew it away from the wall and pressed two rivets. The back of the trunk opened, revealing two small compartments and a large cavity beneath.
He placed the money in one compartment, and added several rolls of bank notes. From the depths of the lower opening, he drew forth two garments — a black cloak and a slouch hat.
As Cranston’s long arms spread the cloak, its crimson lining showed in the dull light. The flowing garment slipped over his shoulders. His hands raised the hat and placed it on his head.