At the same time a dark shadow, that might have been a dog, a wolf, or a skulking human being, glided from the back of the car toward a great barn that loomed away to the right.
Arrived at the door of the house, the man with the hole in his hand gripped the doorknob and shook it. The door did not open. Producing a small flashlight, he turned it on the door.
“Padlocked,” he grumbled. “Tony’s been here. Got no key.”
“Let’s go to the barn,” suggested a gruff voice.
Without another word they turned and started for the barn.
Had they flashed their light against the one small window on that side of the barn, they might have seen there a frightened, staring, but determined face.
When they entered the large room that had doubtless at one time been a granary, the place was deserted.
Had they looked carefully they might have noted that the dust on the stairway leading to the loft had recently been disturbed by fleeing feet. They did not look. Their minds were concentrated upon the telltale bullets.
“Now, young man.” It was Volpi, he of the hole in his hand, who spoke. “Where are them slugs?”
“Slugs?” said Johnny.