now was too wealthy to allow itself to be hunted down. But even a cop was human, thought Tony; how could people be so foolish as to expect him to do his duty for five thousand a year—and sometimes less—when not doing it would make him twenty-five thousand and oftentimes more. A knock at the door roused him from his reflections on cops in general and Flanagan in particular.
"Come in," he called brusquely and had the automatic trained on the portal before one could turn the knob.
But it was only Al, the little rat-faced outer door-keeper.
"Somebody just phoned on that back room wire at the cigar store downstairs," he announced, "and said that Charlie Martino, one of our truck drivers, was hi-jacked and shot a little bit ago. He's at a garage in Maywood now—here's the address—and whoever phoned said he needs a doctor bad."
"Wonder why he didn't give 'em one of our numbers up here to call," Tony said.
"Prob'ly didn't want to give 'em to strangers. Charlie's a good, reliable boy, boss," said Al pleadingly. "I know him well."
"If it's true, I want to help him all I can," said Tony. "But most likely it's that North Side mob
