A light had been turned on. They were in a small room that served as a garage. An old touring car stood in the center.
Harry could see his captors now. Both were brute-faced mobsmen of the underworld. They seemed to gloat because they had him in their power.
“Quick work, eh, Lance?” The speaker was the uglier of the two. His face bore scars, and Harry, noticing his hands, saw that one finger was missing from the left.
“Soft, Marty,” said the other, a fellow with a swarthy, foreign look. “Lend a holt here. We’ll heave him in the buggy.”
Harry was deposited roughly in the back seat of the touring car. The men moved away. He tried to struggle with the ropes. They bit into his wrists. His feet, too, were firmly bound.
“Well, he’s all set for his last ride,” came Lance’s voice.
“Yeah” — Marty’s reply was a growl — “but we’re not goin’ just yet. The boss has got somethin’ to say about this.
“Wait’ll I fix that tail light. We don’t want no cops botherin’ us. Then I’ll buzz Flash, an’ we’ll be ridin’ high an’ wide.”
Harry Vincent shut his eyes in resignation. So this was to be his finish! He realized that this occurrence had not been anticipated — that for once The Shadow was not here — could not be here — to help him!