“Come on,” said the inspector.
He and Burke jogged along the street and followed the men ahead. The trail led up a flight of stairs and around a corner. They passed men who were opening doors and prying everywhere.
They came into the front room. There, in a chair, sat an old, gray-haired man, his hands raised above his head. His lips were moving. He was uttering incoherent threats.
Cardona was covering Clinton Glendenning with an automatic. As the inspector arrived, the detective motioned to two of his men. They took Glendenning into custody.
For an instant, the old man looked as though he intended to begin a fight. He gripped one of his captors’ arms in a viselike clutch.
But the sight of Cardona’s automatic brought his hands up again. Handcuffed, he was led away.
“Down to headquarters with him, Williamson,” came Cardona’s order to a solemn-faced detective who was standing by the door. “We’ll be there shortly. Have Larkin there, too.”
A bundle of keys lay on Glendenning’s table. Cardona jingled them; then spied the door that led to the old man’s bedroom. He entered, followed by Klein and Burke.
There were curtains beyond. The detective spread them and uncovered a narrow staircase that led to the floor below. Footsteps sounded from below.
Cardona hailed. It was one of his men. The fellow joined them.