His reddened eyes saw Motkin. Senov raised his revolver, but Motkin fired first. Senov toppled forward.
He was the last of the defenders. Motkin dashed forward ahead of his men. He found Senov dead.
Leaving his shock troops to drag away the bodies, Motkin, sputtering oaths, hurried from the corridor.
He had wanted to hear Senov talk. That was impossible, now. One other informant remained— the American whom his men had overpowered.
Reaching the upstairs room, Motkin discovered Cliff bound and propped against the wall. Savagely, the Russian spoke to him in English, demanding an answer.
“The Gasconne!” he cried. “Who is on the Gasconne! What is on the Gasconne!”
White-faced, Cliff Marsland met the challenge.
“You will never know!” he answered the inquisitor.
Venom marked Motkin’s scowl. He stepped away and stood across the room. He knew that Cliff Marsland would never speak. Motkin’s blood-maddened brain turned only to thoughts of death.
“Then you shall die!” snarled Motkin.