Wharton paused to eye Cliff with a malicious glance. Killer Durgan’s operative seemed highly pleased with his capture. Still covering Cliff with his automatic, Wharton advanced to the telephone.
“What’s more,” he said, “I’ve got wise to who you are. Cliff Marsland — that’s your name. I trailed you tonight. I heard Durgan’s moll call you ‘Cliff’ when you were going into that restaurant.
“Durgan isn’t wise yet — but he’s going to be, right now! I’m keeping you here until he shows up. Get that?”
He lifted the receiver of the telephone with his left hand. He called a number which Cliff recognized as that of Larchmont Court. Wharton gave the number of Durgan’s suite. A minute later, he was talking to Durgan himself.
“Listen, Durgan” — Wharton still watched Cliff, who was staring in return — “I’ve got the guy that was running with your moll. I’m holding him here unless you want me to — what’s that? Sure! I’ve got him covered with my gat. Sure I’ll bump him off! Right now!
“Listen, now. I’ll tell you his name, then I’ll pull the trigger so you can hear him pass out. All set? Here goes. The guy’s name is—”
As Cliff was about to launch himself forward in a desperate, futile attack that would have meant certain death, two shots rang out from the doorway. Mike Wharton collapsed, dead. His automatic clattered to the floor.
“Come on, Cliff!”
It was Nipper Brady! The little gangster had arrived when sorely needed. He had ended the career of Mike Wharton — and the sound of the fatal shots had been heard by Killer Durgan, who supposed that they marked the end of the man whose death he desired.
Cliff hurried through the cigar store and out into the street. Nipper bustled him around the corner, into a touring car, where Patsy Birch and Dave Talbot were waiting. Patsy was at the wheel. He started the car in response to Nipper’s command.