Followed a loud and scientific bombardment with machine guns, gas bombs and riot guns. The mobster who had been placed on guard at the back door showed too much of himself and was picked off. A contingent of officers made a quick, planned rush. More fighting inside, with three more Salters dying in hot blood in the parlor and kitchen. What seemed to be the sole survivor fled to the cellar and locked himself in a rear compartment. The walls were of concrete, the one door of massive planking. The chief of the attacking force stood in front of this door and raised his voice: "Hello, in there! You're Juney Saltz, aren't you?" Gruff was the reply: "What if I am? Don't try to crack in here. I'll get the first copper shows me his puss, and the second and the third." "You can't get us all, Juney. And we've got more men out here than you've got bullets in there. Come out with your hands up while you still have the chance to stand a fair trial." "Not me," growled Juney Saltz from within. "Come in and catch me before you talk about what kind of a trial I'll get." There was a keyhole, only partially blocked by the turnkey. One of the G-men bent and thrust in the point of something that looked like a fountain pen. Carefully he pressed a stud. The little tube spurted a cloud of tear gas through the keyhole into Juney Saltz's fortress. The besiegers grinned at each other, and all relaxed to wait. The waiting was not long, as it developed. Juney Saltz spoke up within, his voice a blubber: "Hey! I--I'm s-smothering--" "But I'm not," drawled the same high voice that was becoming familiar. "Sit back, Juney, and put your head between your knees. You'll stand it better that way." "I'm--done for!" wailed Juney Saltz. "If they crack in, I--I can't s-see to shoot!" "I can see to shoot." The shrill voice had become deadly. "And you'll be the first thing I shoot at if you don't do what I tell you." A strangled howl burst from Juney Saltz. "I'd rather be shot than--" And next moment he was scrabbling at the door. "I surrender! I'll let you bulls in!" He had turned the key in the lock just as the shot that killed him rang out. A rush of police foiled an attempt from within to fasten the door again. Sneezing and gurgling, two of the raiders burst into the final stronghold, stumbling over the subsiding lump of flesh that had been Juney Saltz. Blinded by tears from their own gas, they could not be sure afterward of what the scurrying little thing was that they saw and fired at. Those outside knew that nothing could have won past them, and the den itself had no window that was not bricked up. When the gas had been somewhat blown out, an investigator gave the place a thorough searching. Yes, there was one opening, a stovepipe hole through which a cat might have slipped. That was all. And the place was empty but for the body of Juney Saltz.