If ever he laid his hands upon the drums he would buy something gorgeous
for Kitty. Little thoroughbred!
Time for work. Without doubt Karlov had cellar exits through this
warehouse or the other. The job on hand would be first to locate these
exits, and then to the trap on the roof. With his pocket lamp blazing a
trail he went down to the cellar and carefully inspected the walls that
abutted those of the house. Nothing on this side.
He left the warehouse and hugged the street wall for a space. The street
was deserted. Instead of passing Karlov's abode he wisely made a detour
of the block. He reached the entrance to the second warehouse without
sighting even a marauding tom. In the cellar of this warehouse he
discovered a newly made door, painted skillfully to represent the
limestone of the foundation. Tiptop.
Immediately he outlined the campaign. There should be two drives--one
from the front and another from the roof--so that not an anarchist or
Bolshevik could escape. The mouth of the Federal sack should be held
at this cellar exit. No matter what kind of game he played offside,
the raid itself must succeed absolutely. Nothing should swerve him from
making these plans as perfect as it was humanly possible. He would be
on hand to search Karlov himself. If the drums were not on him he would
return and pick the old mansion apart, lath by lath. Gay old ruffian,
wasn't he?
Another point worth considering: He would keep his discoveries under
cover until the hour to strike came. Some over-zealous subordinate might
attempt a coup on his own and spoil everything.
He picked his way to the far end of the cellar, to the doors. Locks
gone. He took it for granted that the real-estate agent would not come
round with prospective tenants. These doors would take them into the
trucking alley, where there were a dozen feasible exits. There was no
way out of the house yard, as the brick wall, ten feet high and running
from warehouse to warehouse, was blind. Now for the trap on the roof.
He climbed the three flights of stairs crisscrossed and festooned with
ancient cobwebs. Occasionally he sneezed in the crook of his elbow,
philosophizing over the fact that there was a lot of deadwood property
in New York. Americans were eternally on the move.
The window from which he intended dropping to the house roof was
obdurate. Only the upper half was movable. With hardly any noise at all
he pulled this down, straddled it, balanced himself, secured a good grip
on the ledge, and let himself down. The tips of his shoes, rubber-soled,
just reached the roof. He landed silently.