The Black Falcon

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A MAMMOTH limousine was parked in front of the Club Madrid. Curious bystanders, thronged beneath the lighted marquee of the glittering Manhattan night club, were buzzing among themselves. The chauffeur of the limousine, a grin on his tough face, was listening to the murmured comments of the handful who watched the car.

“That’s Rowdy Kirshing’s boat—”

“Say — it’s a big bus — and you can bet those windows are bullet-proof.”

“Take it from me, that chauffeur’s got a gun packed on his hip. Look at the face on him—”

“Here comes Rowdy Kirshing now!”

The final statement of a bystander caused all eyes to turn toward the entrance of the night club. A big man, his rough, scarred face looming uglily above a stiff tuxedo collar, was approaching from the door of the Club Madrid.

“The biggest of the big shots—”

The comment came from an onlooker as “Rowdy” Kirshing passed. It was whispered; and it brought a low answer from another bystander:

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