“Iss this Miss Dumont? Yess? Then this I haff to say to you: You shall find yourself in serious trouble if you do not move your foolish club of vimmen out of the vicinity of which you know. We giff you one more chance. So shall you take it or you shall take some consequences! Goot-night!”
The instrument clicked in her ear as the unknown 285 threatener hung up, leaving her seated there, astonished, hurt, bewildered.
The man who “hung up on her” stepped out of a saloon on Eighth Avenue and joined two other men on the corner.
The man was Karl Kastner; the other two were Sondheim and Bromberg.
“Get her?” growled the latter, as all three started east.
“Yess. And now we shall see what we shall see. We start the finish now already. All foolishness shall be ended. Now we fix Puma.”
They continued on across the street, clumping along with their overcoat collars turned up, for it had turned bitter cold and the wind was rising.
“You don’t think it’s a plant?” inquired Sondheim, for the third time.
Bromberg blew his red nose on a dirty red handkerchief.