Halfway up the stairs, he threw another suspicious glance back in the direction from which he had come. He saw only the silent, dark hall. As he reached the head of the stairs, he grinned wolfishly.
Perhaps that grin was in acknowledgment of his own cleverness. But if so, he had grinned without good reason.
The moment after he had disappeared from the top of the stairs, there was a movement in the hallway. A shadowlike form detached itself from the darkness and flitted toward the stairway. Up it came, moving with amazing swiftness, following the very path that the man had taken.
The course led upward; for the man ahead was mounting to the fourth floor. He reached his destination and paused. He stood beside a little window that opened into a high-walled courtyard. He remained there, peering out into the dim, vague light that gave but slight visibility to the narrow area.
While he was standing there, a mass of blackness grew behind him; then became as motionless as a statue. The man at the window turned. He stared almost directly at the peculiar form close beside him, but his eyes saw nothing.
Then the sharp-faced man walked to the nearest door, a few paces down the corridor, and tapped softly. The door clicked; stealthily it pushed open an inch — then two. The man brushed inside. The door closed silently.
Even as the trailed one stepped into the apartment, the black form in the hallway swept toward the window. The sash glided upward. Then the figure of a man projected itself outward. The window moved softly down.
The dim glow of the courtyard revealed a shadowy mass, poised upon the courtyard wall. A long arm crept sidewise like a living creature. It found an ornamental shaft of brick. The entire form followed the arm.
Foot by foot, the black shape pursued a lizardlike course along the perpendicular side of the wall!
The man with the wolfish face was not present to view this miraculous occurrence. He was safely in the apartment.
While events were taking place upon the wall of the courtyard, he was hanging his hat and coat on a hook at the end of a small entryway.
That accomplished, he stepped into a dimly lighted room. It had two windows, side by side, opening on the courtyard. Shades were drawn over the windows.
THE room already had one occupant. A man was sitting in the corner beside a table. The table bore a telephone. The man was directly beneath the light of the shaded lamp which illuminated the room.
Well-dressed, smooth-faced, and quiet in appearance, he might have been a prosperous business man, just returned from the theater. He was reading a magazine.
“Hello, Dip,” he said, without raising his eyes.
The wolfish-faced man grinned. He walked halfway across the room, pulled a chair from beside the wall, and sat down. He waited a few minutes. The man in the corner tossed the magazine aside. Then “Dip” spoke:
“Here I am, Flash,” he declared. “I followed the guy. I found out what I wanted!”
No two men could have appeared more different than this pair. No student of facial characteristics would have placed them in the same category. Yet actually, the men were similar in nature. “Flash” Donegan and Dip Riker were known as the Siamese twins of gangdom. They were cronies.
Dip, with his wolfish face and ugly, leering smile, was not the type of man to excite admiration. In appearance, Flash was quite the opposite.
The gangster beneath the light had a calm and composed expression. His straight nose, his thin, well-formed mouth, his narrowed, green eyes, made him a type — the racketeer de luxe. It was the mastery over his expression alone that gave him a superiority over his companion.
Flash expressed a very definite interest when Dip spoke. His eyelids narrowed, his eyes sparkled. It was this odd flashing of his optics that had given the man his nickname. More than one gun toter had quailed before that sparkle. Some had gone to the big beyond while facing that sinister gaze.
“He lives at the Metrolite Hotel,” declared Dip, resuming the subject that he had mentioned. “I beat him there in a taxicab. Waited for him to come in. Looked him over close. I’ll know him again any time I see him.”
“He was alone?”
“Yeah. I don’t know how to figure him. He may be a dick — he may not. He’s in Room 506 at the Metrolite — under the name you said he had — Harry Vincent.”
“You followed him into the hotel, then?” Flash asked.
“I did not!” Dip’s voice was ridiculing. “What was the use of that? I spotted him when he went in; then I beat it. I stopped off at Frankie Gull’s — you know, the speak where we met Pete Boutonne — and I buzzed the Metrolite Hotel from there. Got Vincent’s room number.”
Dip Riker waited for his companion to make some comment. Instead of replying, Flash Donegan frowned as he looked toward the window. He arose, walked by Dip, and raised the window shades slightly. He examined the window on the left; then slipped his hand beneath the shade and felt the lock.
“What’s the matter, Flash?” questioned Dip.
“Thought I saw the window shade move,” returned Donegan. “Funny — I generally keep this window locked. Seemed like some breeze was blowing against the shade. Couldn’t have been, though. The sash is down.”
He raised the shade, opened the window, and peered out into the courtyard. Still not satisfied, he leaned from the window and looked about.
His gaze turned downward, to the concrete area four stories below. Quizzically, Flash surveyed the inner walls of the building. His gaze was sharp; but he did not detect a shadowy shape that clung close to the wall beside and above the window. The shape resembled a huge, batlike creature. But it was utterly silent and motionless.
Flash pulled down the window and locked it. He lowered the shade, but left a tiny space, so that he could see the bottom of the sash. He left the other window the way he had found it. Then he strode back to his chair.
“Acting like you’ve got the jumps, Flash,” was Dip’s terse comment.
“Jumps, nothing!” declared Flash. “I’m sitting pretty, Dip, and so are you — because you’re sticking along with me. Ours is the sweetest racket in New York — all gravy and very little trouble.”
“I’m taking your word for it, Flash. But I’ve got to admit I don’t know what it’s all about.”
“Don’t be a sap, Dip. You know what we’re doing. Keeping these uptown warehousemen free from trouble. That’s simple enough, isn’t it? Why do you think I put Marty Jennings and Pete Boutonne on the job? Just to give them something to do?”
“Don’t try to kid me, Flash,” retorted Dip. “I’m with you — I don’t have to tell you that. But I’m not falling for a lot of hokum. I know the rackets too well. Lookit, Flash: Why do you take these guys on, keep them a while, and then let them go?
“Pete was with you two months — then he drifted away. Marty has been with you a little less than that. You’re talking about letting him go. Want me to promote another guy to take his place. The same way with those other fellows you had—”
“Listen, Dip.” Flash was talking with the smoothness that had gained him his reputation in gangland. “You know me well enough to know that I work different from these other gazebos. I’ve got my methods.
“Why keep a bunch of gorillas and let them get cocky? I use brains. Give a guy a soft snap. Treat him right. Pay him plenty. Then, when you need him, he’ll jump with you right away without asking questions.
“I’ve got two birds working for me right now. Marty Jennings and this fellow, Lance Bolero, who came back when Pete Boutonne left. Three, I’ve got — counting you. That’s enough. When I want more, all I’ve got to do is send out a hurry call.
“The old boys will be back — and they all know their onions. They’re glad to work for Flash Donegan.”