Limpy had long since reached the point of saturation and, lurching
forth from his new found cronies, he sought other fields of
excitement. Likewise did the newcomer, who bore a strange
resemblance to the look-out who had been stationed outside at the
Dodge house a scant half hour before.
What happened later was only a matter of seconds. It came when the
hated snitch--for gangdom hates the informer worse than anything
else dead or alive--had turned a sufficiently dark and deserted
corner.
A muffled thud, a stifled groan followed as a heavy section of
lead pipe wrapped in a newspaper descended on the crass skull of
Limpy. The wielder of the improvised but fatal weapon permitted
himself the luxury of an instant's cruel smile--then vanished into
the darkness leaving another complete job for the coroner and the
morgue.
It was the vengeance of the Clutching Hand--swift, sure,
remorseless.
And yet it had not been a night of complete success for the master
criminal, as anyone might have seen who could have followed his
sinuous route to a place of greater safety.
Unable to wait longer he pulled the papers he had taken from the
safe from his pocket. His chagrin at finding them to be blank
paper found only one expression of foiled fury--that menacing
clutching hand!
. . . . .
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