The car swung toward the lake and stopped at a low, sloping building. Cardona was forced out, and his captors led him to a door in the side of the building. They went down four steps, and entered a low-roofed room. One of the men switched on the light.
Three men had captured the detective. They were a hardy, sullen-faced crew. Cardona, himself the possessor of a poker face, stared steadily as they frisked him of his police revolver, and backed him up against the wall.
One of the men — a big fellow — faced Cardona. He was the leader of the gang. He addressed the sleuth in no uncertain terms.
"All right," he said. "Spill it. What are you nosing about in Chicago for?"
"Do you know who I am?" questioned Cardona quietly.
"Sure I do," retorted the captor. "You're a New York flatfoot, named Joe Cardona. To square it, I'll tell you who I am. Did you ever hear of Snooks Milligan?"
Cardona nodded. He knew that Snooks Milligan was a survivor of an extinguished gang. Snooks and a few others had joined up with Gallanta's outfit.
"Well," said the hard-faced captor, "I'm Snooks Milligan. And when I want a guy, I get him. I wanted you tonight — so I got you!"
Cardona shrugged his shoulders. He saw no connection between his present investigation and the affairs of Chicago gangsters.
"Come on!" growled Milligan. "Spill it! Why are you out here? Talk quick, or it's the works for you!"