Tower of Death

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TWO men were seated in a garishly furnished apartment. Beyond the open window came the muffled roar from the street far below. Changing lights of Manhattan formed a flickering glow from the clouded sky.

The appearance of these men was in keeping with the gaudiness of the place. One, attired in a flashy, braided tuxedo, possessed a hard, thick-lipped countenance. The other, though less uncouth, had beady, ratlike eyes that stared from a crafty, evil visage.

Racketeers deluxe, these men were known to the police. The one in the tuxedo was Mallet Haverly, ex-gangster, who had taken up more lucrative pursuits than ordinary thuggery. The other, dressed in loud, checkered attire, was his lieutenant, “Speedy” Tyron.

The two were in conference. Despite the security which they seemed to enjoy in this apartment, it was obvious that both were glum. The reason became apparent when Mallet Haverly broke loose with a deep-throated growl.

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