“Doc Birch was raided last night,” said Spotter. He did not add that he had been there.
“What for?” came the question. “Booze, or stolen goods?”
“Neither. Phony mazuma.”
“Hm-m-m. Trying to pass counterfeit bills, eh? That’s a new one on me.”
Spotter licked his lips and looked at the big man. He was awed in the presence of this personage. For the man was none other than “Tiger” Bronson, an overlord of the underworld, whose word was law throughout crookdom.
No one knew where Tiger Bronson had gained his nickname. It might have been a reference to his former activity in Tammany politics; or it might have been applied to indicate the powerful and dangerous character of the man.
At any rate, Bronson gloried in the name. Tiger he was, and Tiger he was called.
Very few crooks ever visited Tiger Bronson’s home. Spotter was one of the few. Yet he, like the others, had nothing on Tiger Bronson.
He had come here before simply to report that Reds Mackin had wanted to find Birdie Crull, but that he — Spotter — was sure that the pretended Reds Mackin was none other than The Shadow.
The reason for the report was that Spotter was under orders to bring such information to Tiger Bronson. The big fellow wanted to know any unusual developments in gangland.