On the second night of service here on the floor below, the boy saw a tall, broad man with the features of a southern European, but the complexion of an Anglo-Saxon, with close-set eyes of blue, and a mass of tumbled hair, enter the second booth from the center. He had a companion. The companion was younger than he. At times this youth’s face seemed a mask; at others, when he smiled, it changed. They ordered a sumptuous feast, these two: chicken, Italian style; creamed new potatoes; lobster salad; and a great black bottle. They ate in silence.
As the bus boy removed the dishes, he noted the large man’s hand. It appeared to give him a start. He barely avoided spilling a glass of water on the table. Perhaps this was because there was a hole in the center of the man’s hand.
Dinner disposed of, the younger man of the pair left the booth, walked out upon the floor, talked for a time to one of the entertainers, a tall blonde, then held out his hand for a dance.
Shortly after that he returned to the booth, poured a drink from the black bottle, then sat in the semi-darkness talking in guarded tones to his companion, him of the hole in his hand.
At that instant a curious thing happened. Against the wall, on the darkest side of the booth, appeared a singular phenomenon. A red arrow as long as a man’s forearm was distinctly to be seen. And even as the two stared at it in astonishment, the arrow appeared to flame, as if perhaps the walls were on fire.
The younger of the two men shot a startled glance at his companion. Then, with fingers that trembled ever so slightly, he drew a chain that flooded the booth with light.
Instantly the arrow of fire vanished.
The light was extinguished. The arrow did not return.
Once more the light was thrown on.
Chancing to glance down at the table, the younger gangster uttered a low exclamation, then put out a hand to grasp a note that had appeared from nowhere.