“Bust up this load!” came Ernie’s low-pitched command.
The slight, wiry forms of the thugs moved swiftly, ghostlike, through the gloom. Two of them climbed into the driver’s seat; two more ran around to the rear.
A short crowbar in the hands of one of the latter pair had already been inserted at the tailboard. He threw his weight onto it. The board creaked. And at the sound came a low exclamation of warning from the other gangster in the rear.
He pointed to a small, low-hung sedan, drawn up to the curb within only a few feet of them. So silently had it arrived — rolling up with a closed motor — that none of the mobsmen had observed its coming.
The thug with the crowbar turned sharply. As he did, a peculiar, sighing sound came from the half-open rear window of the darkened car.
The gangster cried out. The crowbar clattered to the paving. He seized his wrist.
“He’s got a silencer!” grunted the wounded man. “Look out—”
Again came the sigh. The injured man’s partner suddenly collapsed.
Ernie ran around, dragging at his gat.
“Drop this van — get that car!” he yelled, approaching the sedan. He yanked open the door, gun raised.