hauling his head down with her left hand while her small right fist was poised to drive up against his jaw. She held on like that for an instant, while the light transfixed them all.
Josh was on his knees with red trickling down his temple. But his wiry, strong hands were around the throat of a man he had dragged down with him.
Smitty had a man’s writhing body raised over his head at arm’s length. He had been caught as he was about to heave it enthusiastically toward three other men.
Five thugs were either down, inert on the floor, or hugging the safety of far walls while they nursed wounds that prohibited any more fighting.
For just an instant, the violent tableau held; then Smitty, with a roar, hurled his burden at whoever was holding the flashlight.
Unfortunately, the unwieldy projectile didn’t quite get there. The light continued to ray out, coldly and impersonally. And a calm voice wheezed from behind it:
“We seem to have a band of children working for us, Gerry. At every encounter, they lie down and let a few of Justice, Inc., walk over them at will.”
“They certainly have not distinguished themselves so far,” was the indolent, drawling answer. “One of you men, turn the lights on.”
The light at the rear of the lobby went on. And with light, there was a different picture here.
Four to one, men faced Nellie and Smitty and Josh with submachine guns and automatics. Meanwhile, Nellie and Smitty recognized Merto and Gerry.
The fat man smiled placidly at the two, and they felt cold from the impact of it. His smile was worse than most blood-thirsty scowls.
Gerry, the beautifully dressed murderer with the long cigarette holder, was hanging black cloth over the glass doors, so that no light would shine into the street. It was standard blackout cloth, easily procurable.
“This is really annoying,” said Merto finally. “Everywhere we turn, we trip over you people. However, we seem gradually to be freeing ourselves of the annoyance. We won’t be bothered by your leader any more. And now, with you neatly trapped here, there will be three more out of the way.”
Nellie went white, and Smitty gulped out something. What did the fat balloon mean, they wouldn’t “be bothered by your leader any more?” The giant was afraid he knew precisely what they meant. So were Nellie and Josh.
In mad anger, the three tensed for a suicidal charge at the grinning elephant with the flashlight. The hands of the mobsters tightened on their guns.
There was tense silence, while the three obviously teetered on the edge of committing suicide on the slight chance that they could reach the fat man first.
In the silence, noises from outside were magnified. A clatter down the street told of a truck being driven too fast, a block or so away. From the East River at their elbows, came the hoot of a boat of some sort, probably a tug.
It seemed like a snort of derision at their desperate plight. “Toot! toot! Try and get out of this! Toot!”
Suddenly, there was a rending, tearing crash from somewhere upstairs in the building. It had come so close on the heels of that last toot, that it seemed as if the sound from the river boat had somehow touched it off.
Merto’s jellylike bulk seemed to freeze solid while his head tilted toward the stairs.
His face suddenly wasn’t placid and philosophical, it was icily furious. So was the face of Gerry, the indolent and elegant co-leader of this crew of cutthroats.
The two looked at each other.
“I don’t know what that is,” snarled Merto, “but I suspect it is more bad luck for us. Let’s see.”
The two raced for the stairs. “Keep these three covered and mow them down if they stir a finger!” Gerry snapped, as the two hit the stairs. There was nothing drawling or indolent about his voice.
The two went up to the third floor, as their steps indicated to those below. Nellie looked at Smitty.
“Rew Wight?” she said. “Was that explosion in his laboratory?”
“I have
Josh was on his knees with red trickling down his temple. But his wiry, strong hands were around the throat of a man he had dragged down with him.
Smitty had a man’s writhing body raised over his head at arm’s length. He had been caught as he was about to heave it enthusiastically toward three other men.
Five thugs were either down, inert on the floor, or hugging the safety of far walls while they nursed wounds that prohibited any more fighting.
For just an instant, the violent tableau held; then Smitty, with a roar, hurled his burden at whoever was holding the flashlight.
Unfortunately, the unwieldy projectile didn’t quite get there. The light continued to ray out, coldly and impersonally. And a calm voice wheezed from behind it:
“We seem to have a band of children working for us, Gerry. At every encounter, they lie down and let a few of Justice, Inc., walk over them at will.”
“They certainly have not distinguished themselves so far,” was the indolent, drawling answer. “One of you men, turn the lights on.”
The light at the rear of the lobby went on. And with light, there was a different picture here.
Four to one, men faced Nellie and Smitty and Josh with submachine guns and automatics. Meanwhile, Nellie and Smitty recognized Merto and Gerry.
The fat man smiled placidly at the two, and they felt cold from the impact of it. His smile was worse than most blood-thirsty scowls.
Gerry, the beautifully dressed murderer with the long cigarette holder, was hanging black cloth over the glass doors, so that no light would shine into the street. It was standard blackout cloth, easily procurable.
“This is really annoying,” said Merto finally. “Everywhere we turn, we trip over you people. However, we seem gradually to be freeing ourselves of the annoyance. We won’t be bothered by your leader any more. And now, with you neatly trapped here, there will be three more out of the way.”
Nellie went white, and Smitty gulped out something. What did the fat balloon mean, they wouldn’t “be bothered by your leader any more?” The giant was afraid he knew precisely what they meant. So were Nellie and Josh.
In mad anger, the three tensed for a suicidal charge at the grinning elephant with the flashlight. The hands of the mobsters tightened on their guns.
There was tense silence, while the three obviously teetered on the edge of committing suicide on the slight chance that they could reach the fat man first.
In the silence, noises from outside were magnified. A clatter down the street told of a truck being driven too fast, a block or so away. From the East River at their elbows, came the hoot of a boat of some sort, probably a tug.
It seemed like a snort of derision at their desperate plight. “Toot! toot! Try and get out of this! Toot!”
Suddenly, there was a rending, tearing crash from somewhere upstairs in the building. It had come so close on the heels of that last toot, that it seemed as if the sound from the river boat had somehow touched it off.
Merto’s jellylike bulk seemed to freeze solid while his head tilted toward the stairs.
His face suddenly wasn’t placid and philosophical, it was icily furious. So was the face of Gerry, the indolent and elegant co-leader of this crew of cutthroats.
The two looked at each other.
“I don’t know what that is,” snarled Merto, “but I suspect it is more bad luck for us. Let’s see.”
The two raced for the stairs. “Keep these three covered and mow them down if they stir a finger!” Gerry snapped, as the two hit the stairs. There was nothing drawling or indolent about his voice.
The two went up to the third floor, as their steps indicated to those below. Nellie looked at Smitty.
“Rew Wight?” she said. “Was that explosion in his laboratory?”
“I have
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