The Death Triangle

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“THERE’S the spot. Ease in.”

The rakish sedan came to a sharp stop. The driver had responded instantly to the voice of the man beside him. The car turned and rolled into a parking space between two old buildings.

The driver, with a deft turn of the wheel, backed the sedan against a wall. He turned off the motor and extinguished the lights. Silent, sullen men listened in the darkness.

While they waited, their watching eyes were turned toward the street. Taxicabs and other vehicles rolled by, following the narrow thoroughfare that formed a straight line through New York’s upper East Side.

This was an old district of Manhattan. It was filled with buildings which had once been pretentious homes, but which had now been altered into apartment houses of a cheaper sort. It was the type of district where one might expect to find an idle automobile, lying in wait for some unknown purpose. This fact accounted for the precaution of the men in the sedan. Their leader, the man beside the driver, was anxious to make sure that the car was not under surveillance.

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