"If it hadn't been for that little roof down below, it would have been my finish I couldn't hold on, but it broke my fall. Even at that, I was knocked cold when I landed in the alley." Barney swept his arm weakly about the room to indicate the dead members of his mob.
"Sit tight, Pete," he said. "I'm going out to round up the rest of the mob. We'll get back here and cart the bodies out. Keep mum if the cops should come in. Maybe we'll run into that tough guy yet." Barney Gleason left Black Pete's place. When the loud falls of his stumbling footsteps had ended on the stairway, the door opened beside the bar, and the scar-faced gangster stepped into view.
"You played it the way I told you," he said to Black Pete. "You're not one of the mob. You're not even a crook. I know all about you, Black Pete. You'd be out of this racket to-morrow, if you could get out.
"You're afraid of Barney Gleason. He's got you where he wants you. Well" — a short laugh came from the speaker's lips — "you'll have your chance to get clear. Keep mum. That's all. Stick to the story you just told. Understand?"
The eyes that gleamed threateningly at Black Pete were cold and merciless. The stocky, black-haired man understood. He knew what this strange personage could accomplish. The bodies on the floor were mute testimony.
Black Pete nodded.
"That fellow is all right, now," declared the scar-faced gangster. "I'm taking him out with me. Remember, Pete. Keep mum."
The man disappeared and returned from the other room, carrying the form of Dick Terry over his shoulder. The heavy Texan's body was no burden for this man who had mopped up Barney Gleason's mob.
As the carrier and his load crossed the room, Black Pete began to shudder at the sound of a sinister laugh that suddenly pervaded the room.
It was a mirthless, mocking tone. It was a laugh that Black Pete knew, although he had never before heard it.