The gangsters stood in sullen waiting while Carpenter was speaking. Their evil expressions were not lost upon Gifford Morton.
The multimillionaire was a fighter. With his back to the wall, Morton could see only the same fate that had befallen others. He made no reply, and Carpenter calmly reached into his pockets and extracted the money that he wanted.
“Keep him covered,” ordered the blackmailer, suddenly regaining his confidence. “I’ll go in the other room and make a quick clean-out. Then we can scatter.”
As Carpenter turned away, a sudden fury came over Morton. A bottle was resting on the table beside him. With a quick move, he seized it and swung a vicious blow. Herbert Carpenter went down like a log as the bottle struck the side of his head.
Morton dropped the bottle and stood panting, looking toward the man who had fallen. Even the gangsters were taken aback by the unexpected attack. Then the man who had shot Gorman spoke again.
“Lay off, gang!” he ordered in a harsh voice. “I’ve got him. Fill him with lead after I plug him. Then we’ll scram before the bulls get here. Speed it up — we’ve got to drag that cold guy with us—”
The gangster leveled his gun. The others watched while Morton stood with the resignation of a prisoner facing a firing squad. One gangster, alone, was outside the door of the room, guarding the corridor. His gaze turned to view the killing.
The guardian slumped to the floor of the hall as a heavy automatic struck the back of his head. No one saw the blow. All were watching the man who was preparing to murder Gifford Morton in cold blood.
“One squawker is one more than we want” — the gangster’s words were directed to Morton. “That’s why we’re bumping you off, Fatty. Here’s where you get yours.”
The killer’s finger was on the trigger. It never fired the fatal shot. An automatic cracked from the doorway. The would-be assassin staggered. His revolver fell from his loosened grasp as he hit the floor.