Wyman. “Not bad,” he said. “You keep the windows and skylights covered at night, eh?”
Wyman grinned expansively and his too-perfect teeth flashed.
Harper said, “You got imagination to think of a setup like this. What's the initiation fee?”
“Well, that varies.” Wyman continued to smile. “You see it wasn't hard to find men—rich men— who wanted to lay low. And it is hard to put on a disappearing act alone. We got a line on some of these birds, and sold 'em the idea of a nice, comfortable rich man's club—”
Harper was tight-lipped, but a thin smile creased his gray face. “You mean death club.”
“Have it your way,” said Wyman easily. “But we told 'em they could get it for a thousand, plus a moderate monthly fee, and stay as long as they liked.”
“I suppose,” grunted Harper, “after you got the first two or three, you made them give you testimonial letters.”
“We did just that. And we had some pictures taken of this room to make it look even better.”
“And after you got them here?”
“After that we just found out how much money they could lay hold of, and made plans to get it.”
“And when you got it, you tossed them off the roof on rainy nights after beating up their faces so they couldn't be identified.”
Wyman shrugged. “What else could we do? If we let 'em go they'd squeal; we couldn't keep 'em here forever—too expensive. Why”—Wyman waved the hand holding the cigar in a careless sweep and lifted his eyebrows—“we only got twelve grand out of that first guy they found. Of course”—he hesitated and smiled—“our average was better than fifty, and we had eight at one time. We'd been picking them up gradually for over six months, and if you hadn't come sticking your nose in—”
He broke off as Slug entered the room and said, “We got all those guys dressed.” He looked at Harper, grinned, said, “Hi, pal.”
Wyman said, “O.K.” He stood up, put the cigar in his mouth, took it out again. “The cops're outside; we'll go this way.” He stepped over to an upright piano against the wall, pushed a button behind one leg. The piano swung slowly out, disclosing a narrow passageway. “Our private elevator's down this hall, Harper,” he said, “and it connects with a tunnel that comes out in the plumbing supply house down on the corner.”
A quick gleam of satisfaction lighted Harper's eyes, but his voice revealed nothing as he said, “Neat.”
He turned toward the hallway and watched six men, well dressed but with terror-stricken eyes, approach the room. They were accompanied by four tight-lipped, narrow-eyed men with automatics.
One of the well-dressed men was bald. He looked up as he stepped into the room, and his eyes fell on Harper. The eyes widened with recognition and hope. He stepped forward, “Harper—” The word died in his throat, the eyes went dull as a guard pulled him toward the opening in the wall. Harper turned away.
Wyman said, “Three of you take these birds down to the corner place and wait. Lefty”—he turned to a husky fellow with yellow skin and a crooked nose—“you'll have to carry the stiff in the hall. We want this place all cleaned up. Leave the elevator door open.”
He nodded his head to Slug who took Harper by the arms, and said, “Come on, baby. I want to see you do your dive.”
THE flat, gravel-covered roof crunched under Harper's shoes as Slug piloted him between the mushroom- like skylight covers to the two-foot parapet. Overhead the stars glistened. To the left and in front winked a network of city lights.
Slug stopped at the parapet and said, “Say when, boss.”
Wyman, holding an automatic, stood up against the wall about two feet from Harper. He said, “Take those cuffs off first. I don't want any slugs in him, nothing that might look too funny. The mashed hand won't matter when they pick him up, and nobody can prove he didn't fall by himself.”
He turned to Harper, who stood motionless in the darkness with only his black mustache visible in the pale oval which was his face. “You have cramped my style, plenty. But at that, I'll be clear when we get rid of our club members.”
He chuckled softly and continued, “When you bounce down on the alley, the cops are going to be busy picking you up. Slug and I will use our elevator. All the cops'll find is an empty clubhouse—let the D.A. try and build a case out of that.”
“All right, Slug.” Wyman's voice was decisive. “Take off the bracelets.”
Slug, standing behind Harper, fumbled with the handcuffs. He slipped them off, started to say:
“O.—”
Harper kicked backward with his heel. Slug yelled as the sharp edge bit into his shin. Harper spun toward Wyman, crouching. The automatic went off a foot from his chest and the flash of fire revealed a gray, tight-lipped face and livid eyes.
The crouch saved his life. The bullet tore through his chest, but it was high. The shock of the slug spun him sidewise as his hand jerked the pencil from his sleeve. There was a click, a burst of white vapor around Wyman's head as the tear-gas shell exploded.
Harper's body rocked as Slug's fist struck the top of his head.
Cursing, Wyman dropped the gun. He coughed, rubbed his eyes. He staggered against the wall, paused there, mouthing oaths, trying to see. Harper shot a straight left to Slug's mouth, stepped sidewise toward Wyman. Slug lowered his head and charged, both hands swinging.
Harper dropped like a shot, landed on his hands and knees. Slug's charge carried him blindly forward so that he tripped over Harper's kneeling form. The wild, swinging right fist swished through space for a foot, then connected solidly with Wyman's shoulder an instant before Slug himself fell forward against the man.
