“The first person who makes a move,” he said distinctly over the sudden hush, “gets a soft-nosed bullet right in the gizzard!”
Stepping to the lieutenant’s side, Detective Gyp Fleming emphasized the threat with his own gun. Simultaneously other gunmen rose from the crowd and covered the spectators with guns.
Quietly the door at the rear of the room opened and the neat gray arms of two state troopers passed under the chins of Morgan Hart and Gyp Fleming from behind. In unison the troopers’ free hands clamped over the gunmen’s wrists, forcing the two pistols to point harmlessly in the air. In the wake of the first two, a dozen gray-uniformed men armed with riot guns filed into the court and lined up along the rear wall.
In a resonant voice the trooper with a strangle hold on Morgan Hart called, “Any other local gunnies who feel tough can step right up. You’ve got two seconds to drop your guns on the floor or get a load of buckshot.”
There was a clatter as a half dozen pistols fell to the floor.
“Carry on, Your Honor,” the spokesman for the state police called cheerfully.
But for the moment his honor was beyond carrying on, being occupied with gaping like a fish at the riot guns of the men in gray.
Quietly Dan Fancy left his seat, picked up “Exhibit A” and seated the full clip lying next to it. Working the slide once to throw a shell in the chamber, he dropped the hammer to quartercock and stuffed the gun in his pocket. He nodded to the judge, who politely nodded back without seeing him, grinned at Adrian Fact and John Farraday, and winked at Adele Hudson as he strolled toward the door.
The trooper holding Morgan Hart pulled both himself and the lieutenant aside from the exit and said, “Good hunting, Mr. Fancy.”
“Thanks,” Dan said as he passed out of the courtroom.
As Dan expected, the news of the crash of Big Jim Calhoun’s empire had not yet penetrated to the Downtown Athletic Club. The arrival of the state police at the courthouse had effectively blocked any envoys to Big Jim from there. When he entered the barroom on the first floor, Dan found it deserted except for the bartender and the baldheaded Stub, who were quietly playing gin rummy.
The big man came in so suddenly that the gunman, Stub, barely had time to swing around on his bar stool and shoot one hand toward his shoulder when Dan was upon him. Grasping the burly man by both biceps, he lifted him bodily, and discouraged the bartender’s reach for a billy club by tossing Stub over the counter on top of him. Both men disappeared behind the bar in a crash of bottles and glasses.
Placing one hand on the surface of the counter, Dan lightly vaulted over, grabbed the bald gunman by the seat of the pants and the collar, and heaved him headfirst back to the customers’ side of the bar again. Stub traversed a short distance on his face, but stopped suddenly when his head, in cooperation with an iron chair leg, acted as a brake.
Satisfied that one antagonist was safely out of the fight, Dan turned his attention to the bartender, who alone hardly constituted competition, being a consumptive-looking man in his fifties who weighed approximately a hundred and thirty-five pounds.
Jerking the man erect by the shirt front and holding him at arm’s length with one hand, so that the bartender’s feet were six inches clear of the floor, Dan shook him gently.
“Where is Big Jim?” he asked in a husky voice.
The man’s eyes rolled upward and he said in a strangled tone, “Upstairs. Second floor.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, sir,” the bartender whispered.
The big man gave him another gentle shake. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
“Hell, no!” the barkeep said, literally horrified by the suggestion.
Satisfied that the man was too frightened to do anything but cooperate, Dan suddenly released his grip. The bartender’s feet hit the floor with a jolt which caused him to stagger against the back bar and add another bottle to the whiskey-reeking litter of broken glass on the floor. He regained his balance by embracing the cash register.
“How do you get up there?” Dan asked mildly.
The bartender stumbled all over his own feet in his eagerness to demonstrate the floor button which operated the door’s electric lock. Vaulting the bar again as gracefully as a cat, the big man waited for the buzz, then pushed open the door next to the bar.
“By the way,” he said before passing all the way through. “When your bald-headed friend wakes up, tell him to sit down and relax. The joint is surrounded by state cops.”
Which was not exactly a lie, Dan thought, for the troopers would be on their way as soon as they wound up their duties at the courthouse, and by the time Baldy regained consciousness, the place probably would be surrounded.
Following the short hallway to the elevator, Dan entered the open door and pushed the button marked 2. As the car rose, he drew his automatic and raised the hammer to full-cock.
The bartender had not mentioned the extra steel-grilled door which disclosed itself to Dan when the elevator door slid back, an oversight Dan attributed to his own hurried questioning rather than to the man’s lack of cooperation. He recognized it for what it was even before Big Jim recognized his visitor, however, and had his gun aimed through the steel latticework, the barrel steadied on one of the crossbars, before Jim could even begin to reach for a desk drawer.
“If you so much as wriggle a finger, I’ll blow off the top of your head,” Dan said with husky relish. “How do you work this contraption?”
The cherubic face of the giant behind the desk was an expressionless mask. “It’s an electric lock,” he said tonelessly. “The buzzer’s under my desk.”
“Then you can move one foot,” Dan conceded. “But move it slow.”
Through the open desk well he could see both of Big Jim’s legs, and he watched critically as the giant’s right foot cautiously slid forward under the desk. Then a buzz sounded, and a jolt of electricity passed from the steel door through Dan’s gun, hurling him back against the rear wall of the car. The automatic fell to the floor outside the elevator.
Groggily Dan picked himself up as the steel door swung open and Big Jim beckoned him in with his own gun.
“You have to wait until after the buzz before you touch it,” the giant said with a grin. “Otherwise you get one hundred and ten volts. I had it designed particularly to cover situations like this.”
Dan watched the steel door clang shut again, then turned to face Big Jim.
“The gun isn’t going to do you much good,” he said mildly. “Your frame blew up in your face, and the building is surrounded by state cops.
“I hope,” he added mentally.
Big Jim’s grin did not falter. Backing to the window, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Then his eyes returned to Dan’s.
“How did you manage it, Dan?”
Apparently the building was now surrounded.
Big Jim’s grin had faded to a moody expression. “Did you do a thorough job, Dan? Have you really got me licked?”
“You won’t be able to wriggle out, Jim.”
The giant nodded, accepting Dan’s estimate as the truth. “How bad is it? For me personally, I mean.”
“Well,” Dan said consideringly, “all your pet witnesses are going up for perjury. Morgan Hart is going to the chair for the murder of Larry Bull. You know how rats begin to squeal when they’re cornered. They’ll all shift as much as they can on to you. Only you know how much that is.”
The giant thought a moment. “Ten years maybe. Twenty at the outside. I haven’t personally killed anybody.”
“Going to start now?” Dan asked.
Big Jim glanced down at the gun. “Possibly. You meant to get me, didn’t you?”
Dan shook his head. “Not that way. I meant to make sure you weren’t armed, then finish the slugging match we started in my hotel room.”