Some of them might be in league with Volovick. None of them were known to Harry. He did not see a single friendly face in the crowd.
One individual, in particular, was most ugly. He was dressed in a shabby, dirty sweater. An unlighted cigarette clung to his lower lip. His face was grimy, and marked with short scars.
The man attracted Harry’s attention because of his sharp, knowing eyes. As he looked about him, he seemed to be ferreting out the thoughts of the others in the den.
Once or twice the man’s eyes rested on the wall, and Harry instinctively drew away from the peephole.
Did this gangster know of the hiding place? His eyes were so penetrating that Harry imagined he could see through the panel itself.
Placing his ear to the hole in the wall, Harry tried to catch the mumbled conversation; but without success. So he abandoned the effort.
He knew that the fight was under discussion. The newcomers were listening in on the talk. Particularly the ugly brute in the dirty sweater.
Volovick had become the center of those about him. He was speaking, and gesticulating. He was telling what had happened, and he shook one fist in the air, as a threat of vengeance.
HALF an hour went by; a long, tense period. Thirty minutes of painful waiting for the man behind the revolving panel.
Harry felt that he could not wait much longer. His arm troubled him; his nerves were on edge. He seemed stifled in this cramped hole in the wall.