More than that, Cliff realized, his warning must be specific. He must learn where these two gangsters would be. There was one man who might tell. That was Dip Riker. A quick plan flashed through Cliff Marsland’s brain.
He stepped up to the bartender. The man was grinning in a friendly manner, now.
“That friend of mine,” said Cliff. “He’s pretty groggy. Mix up a drink for him. Make it snappy.”
While the bartender was complying, Cliff’s fingers went to his vest pocket. There he opened a little box and obtained two small pills.
Receiving the glass from the bartender, Cliff went to the room where Dip was sitting. On the way he quickly dropped the pills into the glass.
These were knock-out drops that Cliff had brought along in case there would be no other way to handle Dip Riker. Cliff knew the potency of those pills. Four of them would put a man to sleep. Two, Cliff was sure, would produce dizziness. He intended to make Dip Riker speak — without knowing it.
“Drink this,” said Cliff.
Dip imbibed the fluid with eagerness. He roused a trifle; then began to rub his forehead.
“Feelin’ bum again,” he complained. “Wait’ll I flop on this bench. My head feels like it was crackin’ open—”
Dip was lying down, holding both hands to his head. He seemed to be losing all sense of where he was. Cliff leaned close, and spoke in a convincing tone.