“With the Richmans, Atlantic City,” I informed. “Why not call when he’s home?” I inquired. A gun, hand, and arm divided the curtain.
“Right; feel warmer now; must get to work.”
“Been here before?” I asked, as the newcomer, tall and strong, covered the bullet-head before me.
“Sure. Remember the burglary in this house five years ago? Well, I was on that job. Another night like this. I sneaked up——”
“Biff!” The newcomer landed squarely. “Cord in that drawer,” he said. “Tie him up.”
I obeyed.
“You’re Mr. Jones, I believe!—I’m Mr. Richman,” he continued. “My agent wired that I’d find you here. Knew I’d be late, so sent you the key. What’s the matter with our friend?”
Our prisoner had come to, gasping, “You Richman?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Burns, Headquarters. Damn you, I’ll pinch you, too——”