CHAPTER XXII
Slowly, yet with a tense, frantic haste, Scarface Tony Camonte went down the hall, peering intently at the brass numbers on the doors, his hand rigid about the butt of the heavy automatic in his side coat pocket.
Then he found it. 612. He halted and turned toward the door, gathering himself like a furious animal making ready to spring. With the silent, effortless ease of a fatal snake, his practiced right hand drew the automatic, then gently dropped to his side. Then his left hand reached out to the door-knob, and he quietly tried it. But the door was locked.
Tony's lips curled into a vicious snarl and his clenched fist banged savagely against the polished wood of the fastened door. There was a pause. Then:
"What do you want?" came the angry growl from within.
"Come out here!" snapped Tony, and instinc-
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