Coffins for the Suicide Squad

STEPHEN KLAW'S train arrived in New York at 8:55 P.M. He slipped quietly off it. Walking through Pennsylvania Station, his slim and wiry figure might have been mistaken for that of a kid back home from college for the holidays - were it not for those cold, slate-grey eyes of his, and for the sure and effortless way in which he handled himself. He kept both hands dug deep in his overcoat pockets as a flock of newspaper reporters and cameramen surrounded him. "Is it true, Mr. Klaw, that you've been sent here to hunt down Dunstan Vardis?" "That's true," said Steve. "Dunstan Vardis escaped from Leavenworth five years ago. Since then he's made a business of harboring wanted criminals. He controls the most vicious gang in the country." "Are you going to capture him dead or alive?" "Either way." Those two almost simultaneous shots created a veritable inferno of panic in the great railroad station. Stephen Klaw slipped the automatic back in his pocket, and stepped over to the side of the dead man. A couple of the reporters, with eyes gleaming with delight at such a story, knelt with him. Flashlight bulbs exploded by the dozen.“What a story!” exclaimed Kearney, of the World. He put a hand on Klaw’s shoulder. “How did you know he had a gun in that camera?”Klaw pointed to the smashed box. Where the lens should have been, there was the round bore of a long-barrelled forty-five calibre revolver.“Did you ever see a camera with a gun-muzzle for a lens?” he asked...