“How about the back, Whitey?” same a question from one of the crew. “Maybe that’d be a good spot to watch.”
“A good idea, Steve,” commended the gangleader. “You take the back. You can duck out after you hear me fire.”
“You’d better give me time to get there, Whitey. I’ve got to double around the block.”
“All right, Steve. We’ll wait.”
Steve moved from the group. The waiting mobsmen heard his footsteps click upon the sidewalk. Steve was walking past the garage, toward the corner of an avenue. His figure, however, was not the only one that left the blackness of the garage wall.
A figure that moved as silently as night itself had taken the opposite direction. Detached from a darkened portion of the garage wall, this shade moved softly along the sidewalk. Six houses from the garage, the phantom form paused. Keen eyes spied a passage that ended between buildings. The shape entered the opening and merged with the darkness of a bay window.
ON the avenue, a hard-faced mobster was moving toward Eighty-third Street. Steve Quigg, the gorilla who had practically appointed himself as guardian at the rear, was on the way to take his post. As he sauntered rapidly, Steve made a motion with his right hand.
A man stepped from an entry and followed him. At the next turn, this fellow moved up and joined Quigg. The two talked in cautious tones as they headed toward the rear of the house that Calban had chosen.
“We’ve got to work quick, Ace,” informed Steve. “Calban gave me five minutes to get posted.”
“All right, Steve,” came Feldon’s response. “We’ll jimmy that back door in no time. Which house is it?”
“The sixth. You made good time, Ace.”
“Thanks to you, bo. That was smart stuff, calling me before you met the crew at Jake’s.”
The two men found an opening that suited their liking. Their talk ceased as they moved toward the rear of the house that Calban had picked for crime. It was only when they neared the door that they wanted that Ace Feldon put a whispered question:
“Anything more about Dorrington?”
“No,” responded Steve. “But what’s the difference? He spilled it once. The gorillas are all wise.”
ON Eighty-fourth Street, a man had begun a steady pace from the direction of the garage. It was Whitey Calban. The mobleader had left his crew. He was strolling along in the manner of a regular pedestrian. Reaching the sixth house, the killer mounted the brownstone steps. He rang the door bell.
A timid-faced servant answered. He peered suspiciously at the visitor. Whitey’s face was a tough one.
“I want to see Mr. Keith,” announced the mobleader. “I’ve got an appointment with him.”
“Yes, sir,” responded the servant. “You must be the gentleman whom he is expecting. Come in, sir. Mr. Keith will see you.”
The servant ushered Calban into a dim parlor. He went upstairs to announce the visitor. Whitey caught the tones of a wheezy voice; then the servant came down, followed by a middle-aged man who looked like a recluse.
“Good evening, sir,” said the middle-aged man, as he peered through gold-rimmed spectacles. “You are the gentleman who called me this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Your name, please?”
“Calban.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Calban; I am Kingsley Keith, attorney-at-law. From your conversation this afternoon, I presume you were coming for legal advice?”
“That’s right.”
“Thaddeus” — Keith turned to the servant — “turn on the light in the office. I shall talk with Mr. Calban in there.”
The servant went to a door just beyond the entrance to the parlor. He stepped into a darkened room. He pressed a light switch; then stepped aside while Keith and Calban entered. Thaddeus left the room, closing the door behind him. Kingsley Keith occupied a seat behind a massive table. Calban took a chair at the other side.
This room was furnished in office style. Except for the bay window at one side, the walls were lined with bookcases that towered to the ceiling. Huge buckram-bound volumes loaded the heavy shelves. Calban looked about the room.
“Nice lot of books you’ve got here,” remarked the gangleader. “Never saw so many in any other lawyer’s joint.”
“My work is almost entirely research,” explained Keith. “That is why I have my office here in my home. These volumes constitute but a small portion of my law library. I have rooms filled with books throughout the house.”
“You don’t get many visitors, then?”
“No. Most of my clients are other attorneys. I was surprised to receive your call this afternoon, Mr. Calban. What brings you here?”
Calban had been stalling for time. He was studying the layout of the room. There were three doors: one from the hall, which Calban and Keith had entered; a second, to the left of the rear bookcase that Calban was facing; the third, to the right of the same shelves.
The door at the left, Calban decided, must lead either to a rear hallway or another room. The one at the right — this barrier was obscured by the shadow of the bulky bookcase — was probably the entrance to a closet. The shades were drawn at the windows. This was a factor that Calban relished.
“My business?” Calban’s face wore a peculiar leer. “I can tell it to you in a hurry. Have you been reading the newspapers, Mr. Keith?”
“I have not,” returned the lawyer. He stared in puzzled fashion at the blond-haired ruffian before him. “I must confess, Mr. Calban, that I seldom peruse the daily journals. My research work requires constant reading of law reports and briefs. I am not interested in current events.”
“Well,” declared Calban, “I’m here to tell you about a couple of guys who were bumped off. They were lawyers, like yourself. Hugo Verbeck was one guy; Clark Durton was the other. Did you know them?”
“Hugo Verbeck” — Keith shook his head. “No. I have met Clark Durton; indeed, I believe that I did some research work for him, a few years back. Did I understand you to say that these men were dead?”
“You bet they’re dead,” responded Calban. “Plugged. Murdered. That’s why I’m here.”
“Regarding their murders?” Keith’s eyes opened wide behind his spectacles. “Do you mean” — the lawyer paused as he studied Whitey’s leering face — “that you know who killed them?”
“Sure,” rejoined Whitey. “I’m the bimbo that croaked those birds.”
Kingsley Keith pressed hands to table-top. He stared in amazement. He half rose from his chair; his face betrayed horror.
“I do not handle criminal cases,” he announced. “You must go to some other lawyer, Mr. Calban. My advice, moreover, is that you be more cautious in your opening remarks when you discuss this matter with a criminal lawyer.”
“Wait a minute.” Calban snarled the order as he came to his feet. “I didn’t come here to get advice. I’ve got business with you, Keith. I’m the guy that croaked Verbeck and Durton. I’m the guy that’s going to croak you!”
With this insidious announcement, Calban yanked a .45 revolver from his pocket. He jammed the muzzle close to Kingsley Keith’s ribs. He delivered an evil laugh as the lawyer sank back into his chair.
“You’re getting a slug from this smoke wagon,” jeered Calban. “You’re the third guy that’s on my list. Verbeck — Durton — now it’s your turn.”
KEITH’S hands dropped to the arms of his chair. The bespectacled attorney was horror-struck. Leering at his immediate victim, Whitey Calban placed his forefinger upon the trigger of the .45.
“Curtains for you,” he gibed, staring toward the lawyer. “Curtains — and then I’m on my way.”