Seating himself at the writing desk, Bruce took pen and paper. The darkness of the room made it difficult to write. Time had become short; and not until this moment had Bruce dared give thought to placing facts upon paper. Realizing the double difficulty, the hunted man chose a course that promised brevity.
Instead of using words, he drew a diagram. The slight glow from the window enabled him to trace lines in rough, exaggerated fashion. His chart completed, Bruce scrawled explanatory words at the bottom of the sheet. Instead of using blotter, he carried the paper to the open window and blew upon the page to make it dry.
Ten minutes had passed. Bruce folded the paper and thrust it in his pocket. He glanced hurriedly at his watch; then moved toward the door. Softly he unlocked it. With fists clenched, body half set for a spring, Bruce Duncan stepped into the hall.
No one was there. Bruce looked about, half puzzled. Though he had not anticipated a horde of enemies, he had at least expected a few pretended loiterers who might be ready to make trouble. Bruce began to wonder if his fears had possessed any groundwork.
When an elevator came in response to Bruce’s ring, there was no one in it but the operator. When Bruce reached the lobby, he noticed that it was almost deserted. The few guests that he did see looked more respectable than any he had observed at lunchtime.
Heading for the street, Bruce felt increasing confidence. The thoroughfare looked brighter and more peopled than it had from above. Among the wayfarers, Bruce spied none who aroused his suspicions. Smiling to himself, the young man sauntered away from the Palladium Hotel.
TWO plans had occurred to Bruce Duncan. One was to take a cab and keep changing directions as he drove along — if necessary, changing to another taxi. The other was to travel by foot, holding to lighted districts until he made his final cut over toward Third Avenue.
The second plan seemed preferable, under present circumstances. As with the first, Bruce intended to follow a circuitous route. As he walked along, however, his sense of security so increased that he saw no reason for a lengthy course.
Harry Vincent had named a definite corner of Third Avenue. Reaching the street that led to it, Bruce decided to go directly to his destination.
Turning from the lighted street, Bruce threw a hasty glance over his shoulder. He saw none but passers; he smiled with satisfaction as he increased his walk to a brisk pace. Fears, Bruce thought, had been groundless. He would have a good laugh when he talked with Harry Vincent.
But had Bruce troubled himself to take a longer look at the turning point, he would certainly have reverted to original plans. From across the street which the young man had left, a stoop-shouldered figure came shambling out of a doorway. Ugly eyes, peering from a grimy face, were quick as they spotted the street that Bruce had taken.
This spy gave a signal with his arms. Back along the street, others emerged from hiding-places. More signals were passed. Down a side street, a rakish touring car moved from the curb. Men on foot shuffled hurriedly toward the street that Bruce had taken.
The hunted man had not been wrong in his original fears. Enemies had been watching the Palladium Hotel since noon. Spies had been posted in the fifth-floor hallway, listening. Full word had been passed to the leader who commanded this crew that was out to get Bruce Duncan.
Watchers had let their quarry pass. They were keeping tab on his trail until he reached some spot where quick, ugly action could be sprung more effectively than close by the Palladium Hotel. Bruce Duncan, heading eastward in advance of schedule, was putting himself into the hands of the foemen who awaited him.
CHAPTER II
CRIME’S VANGUARD
BRUCE DUNCAN was looking straight ahead as he neared Third Avenue. The darkened structure of the elevated loomed in front of him. The roar and clatter of a passing train, accompanied by the lights of cars, reduced the impression of blackness. Bruce saw security rather than danger in the gloomy depths beneath the “el.”
Harry had named an opposite corner. As Bruce reached the avenue, he waited to make sure that traffic was clear. No cars were coming from the north. A taxi shot by from the south; then Bruce saw a clear spot, the next car being fully a hundred feet away.
Halfway across the street, Bruce stopped short. The bare quiver of dull, approaching light was the cue that gave him sense of danger. Looking quickly, he saw the car that he had spied before. With only its dim lights aglow, the automobile was bearing down upon him at a speed of fifty miles an hour.
Had Bruce sprung forward to gain the pillars opposite, the whirling car would have mowed him down. Instinct and luck combined to save him. With a sudden twist, Bruce swung about and made a dive back in the direction from which he had come.
With that move, Bruce outguessed the driver. At the same time, the ruffian at the wheel allowed no doubt as to his murderous intention. Instead of keeping straight ahead, he veered left in hope of overhauling his victim before Bruce could gain safety.
Luckily, an elevated pillar was close at hand. Diving for it, Bruce escaped death by a scant three feet. The driver had swung in; Bruce was directly in the car’s path; but to avert collision with the pillar, the driver was forced to bear back to the center space of the avenue.
Brakes shrieked as a long touring car spun its length about. The driver had jammed for a stop as he passed the pillar. Finding open space beyond, he was madly making halt, that he and his companions might leap after the quarry that they had missed.
BRUCE DUNCAN was dashing for the sidewalk. He knew that murderers were after him. He saw safety in the darkened street that he had left. It was not until he reached the curb that he realized his error. From the very darkness that he sought, three men pounced up to confront him.
Thugs were seeking to deliver death without gunfire. They had the car into which they could pack a slugged victim. Swift, silent evil was their aim. Revolvers flashed; but the hands that held them were raised as though wielding clubs.
Bruce tried to spin about. A thug grappled with him. Ready for fight, Bruce clipped the fellow on the chin. As two more sprang up, he sent one sprawling and dodged the swinging gun hand of the other. Madly, he started a new dash out into the avenue.
Mobsmen from the touring car had him as their target. A new reason made them withhold their fire. Their companions were piling after the escaping man. A revolver shot might have clipped one of their own number. Five in a row, the rogues from the touring car spread out to block Bruce’s flight.
Odds were too great. As Bruce made a leap for the first man who confronted him, another thug leaped up from behind. This time, a swinging gun hand was not dodged. A revolver barrel thudded hard against the side of Bruce Duncan’s felt hat. The young man staggered dizzily.
Another thug swung hard with his gun. Bruce sprawled; as he tried to rise mechanically, his first assailant piled upon him and bashed his head sideward against the cobblestones. Pummeling fists landed on Bruce Duncan’s body. The victim did not feel the blows. He was unconscious.
Two maulers dragged their quarry to his feet. As they started to haul Bruce to the touring car, their leader snarled a vicious command. A huge mobster sprang forward to deliver a final blow that would end the victim’s life without the aid of a bullet.
Bruce’s hat was gone. His head sagged forward uncovered, while blood trickled down his face. Almost at the side of the touring car, his carriers paused to give their murderous companion a chance to swing his cudgeled gun.