The Ghost Makers

There were a few faces that Barney Gleason did not recognize, but they did not matter. All here were mobsmen, and the few outsiders who were present by chance would follow the law of gangdom. They would join with the attacking mob, if required. But Gleason knew that they would not be needed. He noticed one man — a grimy, sweater-clad individual — seated at a far table. The fellow's ugly face bore a long, livid scar. He was a man whom Gleason did not know, but that did not matter. A single glance convinced the gang leader that the scar-faced man was a fighter of the underworld. Like a general reviewing his troops, Barney Gleason finished his calm inspection of his forces. Standing boldly in the center of the room, he faced the door of the inner compartment and waved his automatic in that direction.

"Go get him!" he ordered.

All eyes turned toward the door of the beleaguered room. The four men crouching beside it would be the shock troops. With one sustained rush they would enter and overpower the doomed man. Perhaps one or more of them might fall. What of it? That was the chance that went with membership in Barney Gleason's mob.

Dick Terry's only hope of escaping the four gorillas would be to break through their attack. That might not be difficult.

If he chose to flee, they would, in all probability, let him go— out into the room where more than a dozen revolvers sparkled in readiness.

It was at that moment that Dick Terry sprang the unexpected. He appeared suddenly at the door of the inner room. He spotted the form of Barney Gleason.

He shot at the gang leader, but Gleason had seen him coming. A series of shots rang out as Gleason dived for cover. Dick Terry dropped back out of sight.

Gleason was on his feet again, making silent signals that all understood. He was giving the cue: Wait for a few minutes.

If Dick appeared again, the crouching shock troops could fling themselves upon him, following him back into the inner room. The other gats must wait.

Like a music maestro, Gleason was lulling with a downward movement of his hands. The meaning was plain.

Moments passed. Barney Gleason, in the center of the room, was snarling meaningless orders to mislead the beleaguered victim. His watchful eye was on the door of the little room, however. Dick Terry acted as Barney Gleason had hoped. He appeared again at the door, armed with the revolver of the gangster whom he had shot in the little room. He spotted Barney Gleason, but the gang leader was already dodging for the protection of a thick post, and Dick's shots were of no avail. This time there was no fusillade from the gangsters scattered about the room. Instead, the four gorillas by the door leaped to their feet and threw themselves in a mass toward Dick Terry. Their attack was totally unexpected. But for a remarkable intervention, they would have fallen upon their startled prey before Dick could fire another shot to save himself. Death was planned as quick and certain.

But the intervention arrived. Automatics barked from close beside the outer door of the big room. Like toy figures, the four attackers went down in quick succession, one toppling — two sprawling — the last slumping slowly to the floor!

It formed a most amazing picture — four fiends of gangland rising silently to the attack, then dropping helplessly at the sound of that protecting gunfire — dropping before they had discharged a solitary bullet!

Barney Gleason whirled toward the spot from which the destructive shots had come. He saw the smoking automatics in the hands of the scarred, unknown gangster. Barney's quick shout, that rose above the echoes of the dying gunfire, was the signal for a free-for-all attack. Gangsters, on their feet, were aiming for that unexpected enemy, while others were shooting toward Dick Terry at the doorway of the inner room.

Only Barney Gleason was inactive. He was heading for a spot where he would be momentarily protected from the gunfire of the stranger.

The sharp crack of the stranger's automatics began a split second before the general attack. It was that momentary start that gave him a remarkable advantage. His rising automatics clipped his nearest foemen. Crouching one instant, he fired straight at a hand that held a leveled revolver. A moment later, he was towering beside the wall, his other hand performing deadly work in a new direction. There were shots in reply — many of them; but somehow, this mysterious man had the faculty of picking off the most dangerous mobsters first.