heart-breaker who was the best gunman in the city. . . His sister. . . . No, it mustn't be. . . . If she hadn't sense enough herself, somebody else—
He walked over to the desk, his step a trifle unsteady, his eyes glazed in contemplation of a horror more terrible than any he had seen on French battlefields.
"What number did you give Mike Rinaldo?" he asked.
"Six-twelve," answered the clerk. "But a lady went up with him, Mr. Camonte. Wouldn't it be better to call?"
"Thanks. I—I'll call him later."
He walked over and entered the elevator, which had come back down.
"Six," he said dully and swayed a little from the sudden jerk as the car started upward.
He had killed for money, for vengeance, for lust, for almost every reason except a worthy one. His sister. . . . Upstairs. . . . In his own hotel. . . . With one of his own gunmen. . . . Of course, Mike was the straightest and most ruthless shot in the city. Tony realized he might be facing death, probably was. Mike was touchy about his heart affairs. But Tony had faced death before. He'd always won before. One of these days he was
