“You’re up here alone, waiting for a tough guy, Cliff Marsland, who’s been spotted by your gang! Well, let him come! See what happens to him!”
Ernie Shires turned on his heel and left the room. Only the body of Tim Waldron remained. From the vest-clad form, blood oozed forth and formed a crimson pool upon the stationery that bore the title: “Storage Warehouse Security Association.”
Tim Waldron’s racket — which only he could control — was now no more than a name, and even that name was now being literally blotted out with blood!
There was silence in the room of death. Silence that was undisturbed except for a slight rattling at the window, which might easily have been caused by the rumbling of an elevated train at the other side of the shaky old building.
The pool of blood spread over the top of the desk, while the room of death awaited its new arrival.
CHAPTER III
A STRANGE MEETING
THE clock on the table in the outer room of Tim Waldron’s little suite had ticked off ten minutes since the departure of Ernie Shires. The door from the hallway opened, and a man walked into the apartment.
He closed the door carefully behind him. He turned to view his surroundings. Seeing no one, he quietly seated himself and lighted a cigarette.
The appearance of this new visitor was distinctly different from that of the usual mobster who came to Tim Waldron’s headquarters.