Big Tom was staring squarely into the muzzle of a businesslike automatic, which was leveled in Cranston’s hand. The hawk-faced millionaire had not been deceived by Big Tom’s lackadaisical manner.
“Bring out that revolver you are holding” — Cranston’s voice came in a monotone — “and drop it on the desk.”
Big Tom obeyed sullenly. His flabby fist emerged from the drawer, and let a shining six-shooter fall upon the flat surface before him. Cranston reached forward with his free hand. The revolver clanked as it dropped upon the coins in the millionaire’s pocket.
Still holding his automatic, Cranston spoke deliberately to the man who had sought to trick him.
“Big Tom Bagshawe” — the words were jeering — “the friendly gambling king — a crook by profession. Wondering why things went wrong tonight? Did it ever occur to you that some one might see through your crooked methods?
“Luck” — Cranston’s voice was contemptuous — “is absent from your gambling dens, Bagshawe. That wheel of yours was fixed to win. I watched it and outguessed the man who ran it.”
“I was double-crossed — ” blurted Big Tom.
“Not by your operator,” interposed Cranston, “but by this.”
He moved the automatic closer to the gambler, and Big Tom quailed.
“When the wheel was set for the house,” declared Cranston, “I placed my money with the house. Your man was about to change it. Fortunately, he looked beyond the button on the table, and saw the muzzle of this automatic. He made no change. That spin of the wheel broke the bank.”
In deliberate fashion, Cranston arose from his chair and pocketed his automatic. He walked toward the door, and stopped there to fix a stern gaze upon Big Tom Bagshawe. Slumped in his chair, the famous gambler had all the semblance of a beaten man. His eyes were beady as they flinched before Cranston’s impassive stare.
“I regret that I must leave you,” remarked Cranston, in a tone tinged with sarcasm. “However, your plight is not so great as you would have me believe. You can find money, Bagshawe” — there was significance in the words — “from the same source of supply you used before. Sometime, however, that source will be cut off.”
The words left Big Tom wondering. Did this cool man know of the gambler’s connection with Wheels Bryant?
“I have other work to do tonight,” resumed Cranston. “One rat has squealed. Perhaps another will do the same. Heed my warning, Bagshawe! Remain inactive in this office until I have been gone fifteen minutes. Otherwise—”
Cranston tapped the pocket where he had placed the automatic. Big Tom nodded to show that he understood. The bulky man was completely cowed.
LAMONT CRANSTON left the office and quietly closed the door behind him. He strolled across the floor, carelessly watching the attendants in their work of camouflage. He reached the door that led to the outer room.
At that moment, one of the attendants called to another to help him move a table. Neither man was watching Cranston, but the millionaire stopped, with his hand upon the outer door. His lips formed a disdainful smile as his right hand slid into his pocket. He had sensed that the call was a signal.
With a sudden move, Cranston drew open the door and stepped into the anteroom. Without a moment’s hesitation, he swung to the side and encountered a powerful, hard-faced man who was standing there. The fellow’s right hand was raised; in his fist he clutched a blackjack.
Cranston’s automatic was in readiness, but he did not use it. The would-be thug was starting a downward swing with the blackjack. Cranston sidestepped the falling blow, and his left fist shot upward in a short, swift punch. The uppercut struck his assailant’s unguarded chin. The big fellow swayed and crumpled in a heap.
Even while the man was falling, Cranston made a new move. He sprang past the dropping body, and crouched behind it, facing the opposite direction. He was not a moment too soon. Two other men, momentarily astonished by their companion’s sudden collapse, came leaping forward.
One was pouncing with a blackjack; the other held a revolver. Cranston’s automatic — to this moment hidden from the waiting thugs — now spoke. Its shot clipped the first man’s wrist. He screamed and staggered away, dropping the blackjack as he clutched his wounded wrist.
Two guns roared simultaneously. The man with the revolver fired at the precise moment that Cranston delivered his second shot. Cranston succeeded where the other failed.
The crouching millionaire offered a difficult target. The gunman’s bullet missed. But the leaping gangster formed a perfect mark for Cranston’s aim. He plunged head foremost, and sprawled upon the floor.
Cranston headed toward the stairs. Opening the door, he stopped as he viewed the carpeted steps. Half a dozen new assailants, attracted by the shots, were dashing upward to the fray. A wild shot followed Cranston’s appearance. Bullets spattered the sides of the half-opened door.
Cranston’s reply was a defiant laugh. While its mocking tones resounded, spats of flame emerged from the automatic in his hand. The first of his assailants toppled. Another went down and twisted sidewise as he fell back into the arms of his hastening companions.
A third shot and a fourth — the men on the stairs were no longer attackers. With one accord, they scrambled down to safety, one of them plunging grotesquely as a bullet clipped his shoulder.
Angry faces appeared below; then men ducked for cover as another shot reechoed. Lamont Cranston was on the top step, an automatic in each hand, his eagle eye watching for any foemen who might be unwise enough to come from shelter.
TREMENDOUS confusion sounded from below. The patrons of the Club Catalina were in a panic. Big Tom had gone the limit in ordering this drastic action. He had always kept a squad of Tuxedo-garbed mobsters in the downstairs club, but had never used them before.
Tonight, however, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars were at stake! Lamont Cranston must be stopped. Those were the orders, and Big Tom’s mobsmen were ready to obey.
Yet as the lone, intrepid figure advanced down the stairs, the way was open. Not a gangster was willing to fling himself into a new attack. Four forms upon the floor showed the toll of those fearful automatics.
The scattered gangsters had met their master. Rats that they were, they were cowering away, thinking only of their worthless hides. The mass attack had been met and defeated.
Then came the break that brought new opportunity to the cringing fiends of crime. The surging patrons of the Club Catalina suddenly burst toward the hallway at the foot of the stairs, in a mad effort to leave this place where guns had roared.
In the midst of a crowd of screaming women and excited men appeared those same mobster faces. Revolvers flashed from below. Protected by the bodies of helpless, innocent persons, these beasts of the underworld raised their guns to fire anew at the master sharpshooter who controlled the stairs.
The situation dawned upon Lamont Cranston before the first of his enemies fired. To pick out the gangsters, he must shoot into the midst of the crowd. At the same time, he would be a target for the gunmen’s fire. The stampede was on, and there was no escaping its consequences if he remained in view.
Swinging up the stairs, Cranston gained the doorway just as a fury of shots burst forth from below. Screams resounded; smoke filled the air; bullets drove into the steps and doorway. The barrier was drilled with holes. It could afford no protection to the one behind it.
Knowing this, the gangsters broke from the crowd and began a new dash up the stairs. They had driven their quarry to cover. They would get him now.
The fiends shouted as they advanced, urging others to follow. That was the worst of their insidious scheme. They were making it appear that the man above was a foe of justice; that they were after a trouble-maker upon whom all blame should be laid.