tively moved aside so that when the door opened he would not be visible.
"Go 'way and lemme alone," came the retort. "I'm busy."
The gang leader's face flamed with rage and his breath came in short, hoarse gasps.
"This is Tony Camonte, the boss," he gritted, his mouth close to the crack where the door met the jamb. "I want to see you now. If you don't come out. I'll send for a pass-key and come in."
He drew back again and his grip on the automatic tightened. He heard muffled sounds of stirring within the room and a feminine giggle. And he muttered an awful curse under his breath as the key turned in the lock. The door swung open.
"Say, Chief, what the hell's the matter with you, anyway?" demanded Mike Rinaldo's voice.
Then Mike himself appeared. His coat and vest were off, his collar open at the throat. His handsome dark face was flushed and his oily black hair tousled. His appearance alone was enough, under the circumstances, to give Tony the final impulse to murder, to furnish the igniting spark for the ready powder. Surprised and angry, Mike turned to face his employer.
Tony's right hand snapped up and the ugly black
