“If, as a first step, say, the owners of these outfits should—ah—disappear....”
There was to be no outright violence, it appeared; murder—that was an ugly word; but it was of course possible that there might be—resistance. But—there would be a fortune in it.
Annister’s part would be comparatively simple. He would merely carry out his orders. Rook, eying him now in a close-lipped silence, watched as a spider watches from his ambush. Annister would be needing money; if the lawyer knew his man, and he thought that he did, here was something that would be a lever, and a powerful one.
Annister lifted his head, then he brought his hand, palm downward, to the desk-top. It was a movement, slow, even, controlled.
“I’m with you,” he said.
“Good!” exclaimed the lawyer. “Now—I want you to go over to the club; there are a few men there I’d like you to meet. Ha!”
At his exclamation Annister, turning, followed his rigid, pointing finger.
The huddled figure on the carpet had disappeared. There had been no sound, no sign. The Indian had vanished.