STEPHEN KLAW’S train arrived in New York at 8:55 P.M. He slipped quietly off it.
Walking through Pennsylvania Station, his slim and wiry figure might have been mistaken for that of a kid back home from college for the holidays—were it not for those cold, slate-grey eyes of his, and for the sure and effortless way in which he handled himself.
He kept both hands dug deep in his overcoat pockets as a flock of newspaper reporters and cameramen surrounded him.
“Is it true, Mr. Klaw, that you’ve been sent here to hunt down Dunstan Vardis?”
“That’s true,” said Steve. “Dunstan Vardis escaped from Leavenworth five years ago. Since then he’s made a business of harboring wanted criminals. He controls the most vicious gang in the country.”
“Are you going to capture him dead or alive?”
“Either way.”
“Suppose he gets you first, Mr. Klaw?”
Steve shrugged. “I’m paid to take chances.”
“What about the Suicide Squad?” one of the reporters persisted. “Where are your two partners—Johnny Kerrigan and Dan Murdoch?”
Klaw shook his head. “That’s their business. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Just a minute, Mr. Klaw!” a photographer begged. “Stand still for a second, will you?”
The man raised a bulky camera to his eye and sighted through the periscope. He had his finger on the lever to click it down. Before he could do so, Stephen Klaw took his right hand from his pocket. There was an automatic in it. Without wasting a fraction of an inch of motion, Klaw fired from the hip.
The shot echoed and re-echoed like thunder in the vaulted train-shed. The slug smashed square into the camera, driving through the box and embedding itself in the photographer’s skull. The man went hurtling back, and at the same time there was an explosion from the camera.
Flame lanced upward from it and a bullet screamed wildly into the air, thudding against the steel arch far overhead. Had the camera been pointing at Stephen Klaw, the bullet would have hit him between the eyes.
Those two almost simultaneous shots created a veritable inferno of panic in the great railroad station. Stephen Klaw slipped the automatic back in his pocket, and stepped over to the side of the dead man. A couple of the reporters, with eyes gleaming with delight at such a story, knelt with him. Flashlight bulbs exploded by the dozen.
“What a story!” exclaimed Kearney, of the World. He put a hand on Klaw’s shoulder. “How did you know he had a gun in that camera?”
Klaw pointed to the smashed box. Where the lens should have been, there was the round bore of a long-barrelled forty-five calibre revolver.
“Did you ever see a camera with a gun-muzzle for a lens?” he asked...
Walking through Pennsylvania Station, his slim and wiry figure might have been mistaken for that of a kid back home from college for the holidays—were it not for those cold, slate-grey eyes of his, and for the sure and effortless way in which he handled himself.
He kept both hands dug deep in his overcoat pockets as a flock of newspaper reporters and cameramen surrounded him.
“Is it true, Mr. Klaw, that you’ve been sent here to hunt down Dunstan Vardis?”
“That’s true,” said Steve. “Dunstan Vardis escaped from Leavenworth five years ago. Since then he’s made a business of harboring wanted criminals. He controls the most vicious gang in the country.”
“Are you going to capture him dead or alive?”
“Either way.”
“Suppose he gets you first, Mr. Klaw?”
Steve shrugged. “I’m paid to take chances.”
“What about the Suicide Squad?” one of the reporters persisted. “Where are your two partners—Johnny Kerrigan and Dan Murdoch?”
Klaw shook his head. “That’s their business. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Just a minute, Mr. Klaw!” a photographer begged. “Stand still for a second, will you?”
The man raised a bulky camera to his eye and sighted through the periscope. He had his finger on the lever to click it down. Before he could do so, Stephen Klaw took his right hand from his pocket. There was an automatic in it. Without wasting a fraction of an inch of motion, Klaw fired from the hip.
The shot echoed and re-echoed like thunder in the vaulted train-shed. The slug smashed square into the camera, driving through the box and embedding itself in the photographer’s skull. The man went hurtling back, and at the same time there was an explosion from the camera.
Flame lanced upward from it and a bullet screamed wildly into the air, thudding against the steel arch far overhead. Had the camera been pointing at Stephen Klaw, the bullet would have hit him between the eyes.
Those two almost simultaneous shots created a veritable inferno of panic in the great railroad station. Stephen Klaw slipped the automatic back in his pocket, and stepped over to the side of the dead man. A couple of the reporters, with eyes gleaming with delight at such a story, knelt with him. Flashlight bulbs exploded by the dozen.
“What a story!” exclaimed Kearney, of the World. He put a hand on Klaw’s shoulder. “How did you know he had a gun in that camera?”
Klaw pointed to the smashed box. Where the lens should have been, there was the round bore of a long-barrelled forty-five calibre revolver.
“Did you ever see a camera with a gun-muzzle for a lens?” he asked...
