Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“Thanks, Duke,” said Kirke. “Come on in, Mac.”

When the inventor had alighted with the others, he saw the purpose of their action. Inside Harrison’s, with its sound-proof and sight-proof arrangements, he would be much more completely at their mercy than on the street. He wondered what else he would learn in the house. Had they also discovered the secret of the proposed raid, and would he find the place deserted by all except a special committee for his welcome?

He brushed a few cigarette-ashes from his coat, and entered the vestibule with his companions.

The Greek rang the bell. Seven rings; once — four times — twice. A bolt was shot back, and the bullet-headed individual admitted them.

The man paused, in the act of closing the door, and stared hard at McArthur. His glance, with no friendliness in it, followed him to the foot of the stairs.

The big bolt was slammed back into place.

On the way up the stairs, McArthur expected at every instant to be assaulted by Kirke and the Greek simultaneously, or to feel the stunning thump of a blackjack. But, to his great surprise, they proceeded without violence to the third floor, where Kirke rang for admittance.

The gaming room was crowded and noisy. All of the usual activities were in full swing. The four newcomers entered without attracting any attention.

After a few seconds, however, one of the players at a near-by table caught sight of McArthur, and glared at him sharply. He said something to the others at the table, and all turned their heads. A roughly dressed man of thirty, who was seated watching the game, spoke quickly to them, and they resumed their playing.

Others presently became aware of his arrival, and there was a general abatement of conversation and laughter in the vicinity of the door. Many of the players obviously did not know McArthur, but at each table there were some who looked at him with open hostility.

“Here’s Brick—” said Kirke.

Harrison, who had been standing by the largest roulette wheel, had sensed something unusual. He was approaching.

“Well, well, Mr. Mac!” he exclaimed, his face twisting into a wide grin — a little too wide a grin, the inventor thought.

“Hello, Mr. Harrison,” he returned, blinking.

“Well, how’s Four-Ace Mac to-night?”

“Flourishing. How are you, Mr. Harrison?”

There was a tense quiet now throughout one end of the room.

“Goin’ to stay a little while to-night. Mr. Mac?”

“I can’t stay very long,” McArthur apologized.

“Oh, don’t be in a hurry. We can show you a lot of action to-night.” The manager was still smiling.

A youth at one of the tables laughed harshly. The inventor threw a half glance in his direction. He recognized the youth, who was notching a large table but not participating. It was one of the Castle brothers.

McArthur glanced at his watch. “I may be able to stay a few minutes,” he ventured.

“Yeah — do,” urged Harrison hospitably.

The inventor put the watch back in his pocket. Eleven thirty-eight.

At first he had thought that he would have to fight for time. But he understood the gangsters’ intention now. They had discovered, in some unknown way, his connection with Steele; but they did not know that he had been warned of their discovery. Their purpose was not to deal with him here in their stronghold, but to keep him here until late at night, when only the members of the “big mob” and their friends would be on the streets. The affair was to be almost exactly a repetition of the Wesley Stone matter.

“You know, Mr. Harrison,” the inventor declared, returning his smile, “I’ve been thinking about that proposition you made to me one night.”

He had stepped closer, but others were still listening.

“Have you? Well, that’s fine!” answered the big man. “Fine, Mr. Mac! You’re a good sport, you are, Mac! A regular fellow!” He slapped him jovially on the back several times — then on the hips, to see if he carried a weapon.

“Yes. To tell you the truth,” the inventor added, “I’ve been losing quite a little sleep thinking about it.”

“Haw!” said Harrison. Kirke and some one else chuckled.

“But I’ve decided that I wouldn’t be able to swing a game of that kind.”

“No? Afraid your conscience would bother you, eh?”

“Well, it might,” McArthur admitted.

“I suppose so. Some people have awful queer consciences.”

“Besides, I wouldn’t be any good at that kind of thing, anyway. I’m only an entertainer. But I’ll tell you what I did think of doing — if I could come to satisfactory terms with you.”

“What’s that?” asked the other, in a curious tone.

“Why, I’ll teach your bunch how I do the stuff — then you can send some of them upstairs, and pay me ten per cent on all profits.”

Harrison winked at Kirke. “How would you know we wasn’t holdin’ out on you?”

“Oh, I’d trust you,” the inventor assured him.

Kirke snickered.

“I’ll drop around in a few days and arrange the contract,” McArthur suggested, glancing at his watch for the second time.

“Don’t go yet, Mr. Mac,” returned his host.

“I really must, Mr. Harrison—”

“Aw, be a good fellow and stay a little while.”