man. His head hung upon his breast and his body swung limply.
A fourth man stepped from the automobile.
I recognized him. He was Julian Ricori, a notorious underworld chieftain, one of the finished products of
the Prohibition Law. He had been pointed out to me several times. Even if he had not been, the
newspapers would have made me familiar with his features and figure. Lean and long, with silvery white
hair, always immaculately dressed, a leisured type from outward seeming, rather than leader of such
activities as those of which he was accused.
I had been standing in the shadow, unnoticed. I stepped out of the shadow. Instantly the burdened pair
halted, swiftly as hunting hounds. Their free hands dropped into the pockets of their coats. Menace was
in that movement.