"I'd rather die in the chair this minute than get my turn with the boss," he vowed hysterically. "Don't tell me you'll take care of me, either. There's things can get between bars, through keyholes even, into the deepest hole you got. And you can smack me around all week before I'll pipe up with another word."
His captors shut him in an inside cell generally reserved for psychopathic cases—a solidly plated cubicle, with no window, grating, or other opening save a narrow ventilator in the ceiling that gave upon a ten-inch shaft leading to the roof. Then they gathered reenforcements and weapons and descended on the house with the cellar where the kidnapped director had been held for ransom.
Stealthily surrounding that house, they shouted the customary invitation to surrender. Silence for a few seconds, then a faint-hearted member of the Salters appeared at the front door with his hands up. He took a step into the open, and dropped dead to the accompaniment of a pistol-report from inside. And the besiegers heard the shrill voice about which they had been wondering:
"Come in and take us. This place is as full of death as a drug store!"
Followed a loud and scientific bombardment with machine guns, gas bombs and riot guns. The mobster who had been placed on guard at the back door showed too much of himself and was picked off. A contingent of officers made a quick, planned rush. More fighting inside, with three more Salters dying in hot blood in the parlor and kitchen. What seemed to be the sole survivor fled to the cellar and locked himself in a rear compartment. The walls were of concrete, the one door of massive planking. The chief of the attacking force stood in front of this door and raised his voice:
"Hello, in there! You're Juney Saltz, aren't you?"
Gruff was the reply: "What if I am? Don't try to crack in here. I'll get the first copper shows me his puss, and the second and the third."
"You can't get us all, Juney. And we've got more men out here than you've got bullets in there. Come out with your hands up while you still have the chance to stand a fair trial."
"Not me," growled Juney Saltz from within. "Come in and catch me before you talk about what kind of a trial I'll get."
There was a keyhole, only partially blocked by the turnkey. One of the G-men bent and thrust in the point of something that looked like a fountain pen. Carefully he pressed a stud. The little tube spurted a cloud of tear gas through the keyhole into Juney Saltz's fortress. The besiegers grinned at each other, and all relaxed to wait.