scrawled "P. G. Callahan Association." Carter paid his freight and alighted.
He knocked slowly three times on the soot covered gray door and was admitted.
The room inside was filled with smoke and the odor of many unwashed human beings. The click of billiard and pool cues mingled with the sound of tough voices. The occupants were entirely roughly clad men, unmistakably hard characters. They glanced sharply toward the door as Carter entered, then, recognizing him, went back to their former occupations. All except a burly, red-faced Irishman in his shirt sleeves who left the poker game in the corner to greet the newcomer. The former led the way to the rear of the room and opened a door leading into a more private sanctum, Callahan's office. For the fat man with the hard blue eyes and undershot jaw was none other than the redoubtable Puggy Callahan, leader of the motley crew littering up the room outside. The police had long suspected Callahan of instigating or actually perpetrating "jobs" comprising everything from petty larceny to murder, but thus far they had been able to fasten nothing definite upon him. He had the utmost scorn for them.
"What's the dope, boss?" he asked Carter when they were seated around a table.
"Do you know Pop Dillon?" Carter inquired.
"Who—the old guy who runs the horse-car line over on De Lacey Street?" asked Puggy.
"Yes." Carter hitched over nearer to the hulk that was Callahan. "Listen, Puggy, friends of mine
