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foothold in the market. He let slip that he was looking for qualified men to run the operation, too, which went far towards loosening recalcitrant tongues.
      In the end, Taylor caught a cab and returned home. Once there, he unrolled a large map of the city onto his dining room table, and in a blunt-end pencil began to mark different locations one by one. With his considerable power of recall, he traced the route the hooded man had fled by two nights before, placed a large "X" upon the spot where Parsons was hired, and then began to triangulate positions and calculate distances to the half dozen warehouses he had circled. After half an hour's work, he had his answer. He rolled up the map, and returned it to the shelf.
      He dressed quickly. First the black wool suit, shoes, and leather gloves. Then he slipped various tools and devices into his pockets, and into the hollow heels of his shoes. Next he loaded his twin .45s, and slipped each into its shoulder harness. Last came the snap-brim fedora, the full-face mask ready to fall into place. Thus outfitted, he strode across the room to the phone. 
      The line rang four times, and then a groggy voice answered.
      "Yeah, this is Nick," came the muffled voice. "Whadya want?'
      "Nicholas Oliverio, the Black Hand has use for you."
  "What? Oh, sure, yeah, I'm up."
      "You will meet me at the following address, Nicholas," Taylor continued in whispers. "I will need your services for much of the night." 
      "You got it, boss," Oliverio replied eagerly. "Anything you say."
      Taylor gave him an address a few blocks away, and told him to be there in fifteen minutes. 
      "I'll be there," Oliverio answered, almost shouting. Taylor hung up the phone, turned out the light, and left the room.
      Nick Oliverio arrived on time, even considering that he'd driven from the far side of town and had been in bed when Taylor had called. Nick felt he owed his life to the Black Hand, and would do anything for him. Some aided the Black Hand out of fear, or of hope for reward. Nick assisted him out of gratitude. Months before, the cab driver had narrowly escaped death when the Black Hand had prevented a gun-crazed fiend from firing point blank in Nick's face. Ever since, whenever the Black Hand needed him, Nick was at the ready.
      Nick pulled up to the curb, and from out of the shadows stepped the Black Hand. Without a word, he slipped into the backseat of the cab, closing the door silently behind him.
      "Where to, boss?" Nick asked, not turning around.
  "Pier 31," came the whispered answer.
  "You got it."
      In silence, the cabbie drove his dark passenger through the night, stopping at last a short distance away from the indicated spot. Nick knew the Black Hand used subtlety and surprise as weapons, and didn't want to interfere. 
      "Wait here," the low voice ordered. "I shall return with two other passengers, and possibly some cargo."
      Nick shivered despite himself. He had a good idea what kind of cargo the Black Hand meant, and it would be destined only for a morgue. Still, he was happy to help.
      The Black Hand slipped away from the cab, sidling up to the dark warehouse, number 2740. Going around the side, he came to a door secured with a rusted padlock. Slipping a slender tool from a pocket, he inserted it into the keyhole, and with a twist, jarred the lock open. Then he gently pulled the door open and stole inside. 
      The interior of the warehouse was cavernous and empty, the ceiling high overhead. Broken wooden pallets and empty boxes littered the concrete floor, and overhead swung a heavy iron hook on a rope and pulley. The only light came from a dim bulb set in the far corner wall, and beneath that light lay slumped a crumpled form. Twin .45s at the ready, the Black Hand made his way across the floor, and crept up towards the figure lying there in the dim pool of light. It was the bound form of Louise Aldridge.
      "Miss Aldridge," the Black