“For smoking that brand of gold-filled cigarettes this afternoon.”
That was the point where Gillman began to lose his nerve.
“I—I don’t understand,” he stammered.
“Yes, you do,” answered Nick. “Put up your wrists.”
“Don’t you do it, Gillman!”
This counter-command came from the side of the room.
Out of the corners of his eyes Nick could see that a panel in the wall had slid noiselessly back.
A square opening was revealed, framing a man’s head and shoulders.
The man wore a brown derby hat and held a revolver, whose point was leveled at the detective’s breast.
A triumphant smile began to show itself on Gillman’s face; but the smile vanished as a second head appeared in the opening and another voice echoed sharply through the room.