He was neither roughly dressed nor flashily attired. He represented neither of the extremes. He could not have been classed as a tough gorilla nor as a smooth racketeer.
His face, too, was different from the usual gangland physiognomy. His features were firm and well-molded. His eyes were blue in color, and his hair was light. He seemed more the athlete than the gangster.
Yet there was a threat in his square jaw, and his immobile expression carried a certain forcefulness.
It had been nearly eight years since he had been identified with New York’s underworld. Eight years is a long time in gangdom. Yet the name of Cliff Marsland was not forgotten!
As the minutes went by, Marsland retained his expression of immobility. He was a man who seemed accustomed to waiting. He lighted a second cigarette in a mechanical fashion; then a third.
When he had flicked the final cigarette into a bowl that served as an ash tray, Marsland noted the clock on the table. He had been waiting ten minutes. He arose and glanced at the half-opened door that led to the inner room. He stepped over and tapped on the door. Hearing no response, he entered. He stopped short the moment that he stepped through the doorway. Neither surprise nor confusion were registered upon his firm features. Marsland merely stood motionless as he stared at the form of Tim Waldron, with its crazily spread arms.
Marsland’s eyes were focused on that one spot in the room. He walked forward and examined the body with the cold precision of a man to whom death is no stranger.
He picked up the automatic that lay on the table. He examined the weapon in a matter-of-fact manner, then replaced it upon the table.
A low sound came from the end of the room. Marsland turned without haste.
Once more he stood motionless. In the corner of the room, at a spot where the light was obscure, stood a tall man clad in black. He formed a strange, imposing figure, with a huge cloak over his shoulders. His broad-brimmed hat, turned down in front, shrouded his face in shadow.