The New Yorker knew their occupations. One was Barruci's chauffeur; the other, his bodyguard. The man at the wheel nodded in response to his chief's order. The other man sat sidewise, keeping watch as they rode along.
"Maybe you've heard of this place where we're going," said Barruci, as they reached the outskirts of the city. "It was built to look like a country house, but Gallanta had it fixed as a blind to store hooch.
"Then we had to soft pedal the racket when Gallanta took his rap. So we've been using it to dump guys we don't want. Putting them where the booze was supposed to have been." The car was speeding rapidly along the shore of Lake Michigan. The New York gangster gave no betrayal of the tenseness he felt.
"No telephone out there," explained Barruci apologetically. "The place is kept empty. If there was a phone, we could have tipped Snooks to lay off for a while. Maybe we'll be in time — I hope so!" The final words showed that the Chicago gang leader shared the anxiety which he supposed gripped Jake.
The sedan drove up to a low house. The four men piled out, and Barruci led the way down the steps. They crossed a room, and Barruci gave a series of five quick taps at an inner door. Five taps responded. Barruci rapped twice. The door opened, and the arrivals stepped in to witness a strange scene.
Joe Cardona, completely unconscious, was drooping from the roller which held his rope-encircled wrists. One man was confronting the arrivals with an automatic. Another was standing by the winch. Snooks Milligan was at the wall, his hand upon a knob, on the point of giving an order.
"Barruci!" he exclaimed.
"Is that Cardona?" quizzed Barruci.
Milligan nodded.
"This is Jake Quellan," explained Barruci, indicating the New Yorker. "He's out here to make Cardona squawk. Has he told you anything?"