Cliff took Dip to a dark door on a side street, near Sixth Avenue. No ceremony was necessary. Cliff simply opened the door, and they went in, to find a bar larger than the one at Frankie Gull’s.
There were tables in the corner, and the two sat down at one of them. A waiter brought drinks and sandwiches. Dip gulped down the contents of his glass. Cliff held his glass poised at his lips.
“Good place, eh?” he questioned. “Look at those imported bottles on the shelf.”
Dip glanced behind him. When he had finished a quick inspection, he turned again to Cliff Marsland. The firm-faced man was setting his glass upon the table empty. Dip had not seen him pour the liquor against the wall.
Conversation began, and both men talked briefly. Dip took a strong liking to Cliff Marsland. Dip Riker was closemouthed and seldom told all that he knew, and Cliff appeared to be a man of the same stripe. The one great difference lay in their appearance.
With Cliff, as with Flash, Dip was at a disadvantage. For Cliff Marsland was a man of well-chiseled features. His face showed strength and purpose; it bore none of the characteristics that marked the ordinary gangster.
Another drink was served. Cliff took advantage of Dip’s glance at the clock to again decorate the wall with the contents of his glass. It was nearly quarter of eight. Dip Riker shifted in his chair.
“Guess I’ve got to be goin’, Cliff,” he said. “You ain’t leaving town right away, are you?”
“No. Not if there’s anything stirring here,” Cliff informed him.
“Where can I find you?”