Like a cat stalking for a kill, Spike moved to the heavily barred cell door. He thrust the pistol inside his shirt and slumped against the bars. He heard the guard returning on his beat.
Spike whimpered softly, as if he were in great pain. The guard heard the sound, his footsteps quickened.
'What's the matter, Cardy? You sick?' asked the guard.
The gangster chief reached a feeble hand through the bars, clutching wildly at the guard's shoulder.
The guard leaned nearer. Cardy's left hand moved like a striking snake, the steel fingers closing around the man's throat. At the same instant the flame pistol, its charge screwed down to low power and a pencil point in diameter, flashed across the space between Cardy's shirt and the guard's heart. Just one little burst of white-hot flame, expertly aimed. Just one little chuckle out of the heat gun, like a man might chuckle at a joke. That was all.
The guard slumped closer against the bars. The death-clutch on his throat had throttled down his outcry. Anyone looking at the scene would have thought he was talking to the prisoner.
Cardy worked swiftly. It was all planned out. He knew just what to do.
His right hand tore the ring of keys from the dead man's belt. His fingers found the correct key, inserted it in the lock. The cell door swung open.
Now was the one dangerous point in the whole plan. But Cardy did not falter.
Swiftly he swung the door open and dragged the guard inside. He would have to take the chance no one would see.