“What’s the matter, Ernie?” demanded the tall, rugged man who had been in the room. “What’s happened to you?”
“Nothing, Tim!” Ernie growled in reply. “Nothing that matters! Give me a shot! I want to talk to you!”
Tim led the way to an inner room, leaving the door open.
This room was small. It contained a desk, two chairs, and a safe. On the desk was a typewriter. Beside it lay a pile of stationery that bore the heading: “Storage Warehouse Security Association.”
The man called Ernie reached out as the other poured him a drink of liquor. He swallowed the fluid at a single gulp.
“Sit down a minute, Tim,” he said.
Tim corked the bottle angrily and obeyed. He looked on in amazement while Ernie turned out the light, so that only the dim glow from the other room remained.
Tim watched while Ernie cautiously raised the blind of the window and peered downward into the blackness of the alley. Then he lowered the blind and turned on the light.
“What’s the lay, Ernie?” demanded Tim.
“If you want to know,” growled the visitor, “I’ll tell you! The Tim Waldron storage racket took it on the chin tonight!”