It was nearly midnight when he left the apartment, and once Flash was in his car, he sped rapidly northward. Nearing his destination, he parked on a side street and alighted. He sauntered through the darkness until he reached the man-made canyon that ran between the two warehouses.
Flash was alert. He was watching and listening, eager to detect any sign that might denote the presence of the watching men. But all was silent. Flash smiled to himself. This invisible lookout was to his liking.
Flash entered the narrow opening and walked slowly onward. He was listening for any sound. This narrow passageway, with its outlets on parallel streets, formed a perfect trap.
The watchers had their instructions. Any one could enter here; but leaving the snare was a different matter. Harry Vincent had learned that fact. Flash smiled at the thought.
Halfway along the paved alleyway, Flash stopped. His hand came from his coat pocket. A tiny green light glimmered with three distinct twinkles.
This was a signal that Harry Vincent had not seen Larkin give. Flash Donegan turned to his left and pressed against the wall. A door swung inward.
The racketeer entered the pitch-dark passage.
The door swung silently behind him. It blotted out the faintest trace of light that remained — the dim whiteness of the warehouse across the alleyway. Flash advanced and went through the second door into the lighted corridor.
He stopped after he had gone a few steps. He had the peculiar sensation that he was not alone. He glanced back toward the door through which he had come. There was only gloom at the end of the corridor, punctuated by small lights in the center of the passage.
Flash stared into the black shadows that obscured the end of the wall. For a moment he felt impelled to go back and probe that patch of gloom. Then he laughed at his folly. His dull mirth sounded hollow in the stone-walled corridor.