Motkin grinned mirthlessly as he heard the details. The Romanoff jewels had somehow been acquired — the prisoner was not sure of the method. They were being brought by ship to a place on Long Island.
Here, again, the word was vague. But the vital point was this: the store of vast wealth would be brought by automobile to Froman’s home tonight. There it would be stored in the underground strong box which Frederick Froman had erstwhile used as a torture chamber.
Motkin heard all this. He addressed the prisoner personally. Under his sharp questioning, the man repeated all he knew. He looked to Motkin for mercy.
Ivan Motkin was merciful, in his way. Michael Senov would have stamped brutally upon the man’s face.
Motkin was less cruel. He looked about the group and asked a question. One man stepped forward.
At Motkin’s command, this stalwart drew a knife and flung himself upon the bound prisoner. The helpless man screamed as the dirk descended. Then the sharp knife had performed its work. Motkin gloated as the blood gushed on the floor.
With a leering glance about the room, Motkin gave orders to the gang. Alone, he left the place and ascended a flight of steps. He came out into the night, and strode hurriedly along a dark, narrow street.
MOTKIN was familiar with New York. He had lived here, prior to the Russian Revolution. He had been to America since. Tonight, he was confident.
Immediately upon his arrival in Manhattan, he had aimed for obscurity. Motkin was sure that he had eluded the man in black, who had so frequently crossed his path.
Nevertheless, the shrewd Russian was playing safe. Two men swung from the darkness and followed him as he headed westward. They were his bodyguard. Motkin reached a well-lighted street, and hailed a taxicab. His companions joined him.