“Sit down — and keep your mitt away from your gat” — Big Ben’s voice meant business — “you yellow double-crosser! Framing it with a guy to make it look like a stick-up! Leaving me half a grand to make it look on the level!
“Well, it don’t go, see? Come across! Make up what’s missing — and do it quick! Get me?”
“Lay off that stuff, Ben,” retorted Ernie. “I want to get that guy! He’s the bird that’s queered our racket! Let me get him!”
“Stay right where you are!” warned Big Ben. “I want some dough out of you! Get me? If you don’t come across, you’ll hear from Bart Hennesy — you and Killer Durgan, both!
“I’ve had enough phony stuff tonight — and when a guy pokes a gat in through the curtain—”
Suddenly suspicious because of his own remark, Hargins turned for an instant and swept his free hand against the curtain, as though to make sure that no invisible watcher was waiting there.
Ernie Shires seized the opportunity. His hand was close beside a bottle standing on the table. Cliff saw the gangster grasp the neck of the bottle and swing it ferociously at Big Ben’s head. The dock walloper turned as the blow was falling.
Before he could press the trigger of his automatic, the bottle crashed against his skull. Big Ben crumpled beneath the impact. He slumped between the table and the curtain. Ernie Shires laughed.
“A double-crosser, am I?” he muttered. “Well, you don’t look like you’re going to tell ‘em that any more!”
He stooped beside the table. When he arose, Cliff saw the bills that Big Ben had held, were now in the possession of Ernie.