“It’s the Kid himself!” marveled Little Goldie.
Before the Dropper had time to take a second step toward the car, two spurts of flame, and two more. He stopped dead still in his tracks.
It wasn’t Abe at all! Something had gone wrong again.
The men in the car saw him take one sweeping glance around, and make for the only shelter at hand — a stone monument to the dead in the World War, hardly ten steps to the side. He threw himself leaping toward this.
“Missed him,” groaned Goldie.
Angelo, the chauffeur of the car, turned it slightly sideways, so that the lights washed the big hollow boulder that was the base of the monument. There was the Kid, disappearing behind the shelter.
Panting rackingly, he crumpled to the ground, his two guns out. Only one thing, he realized, had saved his life — the one thing that Allen Streeters had not counted on. There had been that unexplained murder of a policeman less than a month before — nothing to connect it with the Dropper or his gang; and the officer, as the whole department knew, had been wearing one of the new bullet-proof vests. The papers had been full of pictures of Officer Reilly wearing the armored garment, while pistols were shot off harmlessly close to his body: so the Dropper had shrewdly sent his bullet through the officer’s brain. One fumbling minute after the Kid’s delightful discovery of the garment, it had disappeared down the street with the shadowy gang leader. Since then he had had it on except when sleeping. It was absolute protection against a body shot.
The two bullets from the interior of the truck had stunned him momentarily, but that was all. As long as the Allen Streeters did not guess this he was almost safe against gun or knife.
It was growing brighter by the moment, as the dawn gray spread farther and farther up the east. He took one quick look at the truck — a shot was his reward. Well, with Abe Beck gone, there was only one thing to do — to get back away from this open space, and that at once.
He rose to his full height in the shelter of the rock, prepared to run for it. Meanwhile the Allen Streeters had piled out of their two vehicles and were calling to each other plans for a concerted rush against the one desperate foeman.
All the time that this battle had been waging two other cars had been burning up the road between Manhattan and Ossining, in the endeavor to be in at the finish. For this night, starting even before the Kid’s car had left the city limits, had marked another of the periodical round-ups of the East Side gangsters. This time the department was after information concerning that very policeman whose bullet-proof vest the Kid was wearing.
They found out nothing about that policeman’s death. But the astute officers had rounded up not only all the gangsters available, but their girls as well. And Yetta Wolff, of course, had been one who had fallen into the net.
She had lied desperately at first; she knew nothing about anything. But somehow they had tripped up her tangling story, and by a lucky guess had played on her jealousy of the Kid and other women. She was so angry still, that she could not hold it in. So out came at last the story of what he had planned for this night, and the fact that the Allen Streeters had been tipped off.
At once two carloads of officers were started, desperately driving north, to take control of the hi-jacking game, and net all of these trouble-makers of both parties at the same time.
As the Kid, erect, started his spring toward freedom out of the grassy park circle toward the temporary safety of the pumping station a hundred feet away, the two powerful police cars swung around the curve a hundred yards off.
He sensed the coming of the cars at once. Well, friend or foe, they could not be worse to face than what lay behind him. Out of the rain of shots that whistled harmlessly around him, he ran straight for the headlights, calling aloud for help. Even ordinary travelers might protect him for a moment’s breathing space against the enemy behind — and then—
Too late he noticed what new enemies were these. At that, he thought with painful rapidity, the cops had nothing on him. Still, better make a break, anyhow. He leaped from his indecision for one more try at freedom.
He had delayed too long. Two muscular officers caught him before he had taken two steps, and flung him to the ground. Before he could rise to his feet they had the bracelets on him. He found his guns wrenched violently out of his hands. He was yanked and bundled into the back car, under the guard of the police chauffeur.
The two officers joined the others, who had gone after the truck and Little Goldie’s car.
The gangsters realized that this game had reached its end. Here they were, in territory alien to the rat holes and basements they were familiar with. There, too, was the truck load of rum, and no way to get it out of sight.
Morosely Goldie gave the order not to shoot. They were outnumbered; it would mean only a fight to the death. The penalty for rum-running, anyhow, was nothing compared to penalties they were always running the risk of. Hands above their heads, the four from the truck and four of the men who had been in the car came forward into the light.
At least, it had taken eleven policemen to net the nine — no, the eight of them, Little Goldie was glad to notice. Light — he ran his eyes over them again. Who was missing? Ah, where was Harry Weiss, who had sat right behind him in the car?
Dirty little yellow squirt! Always ducking out when there was trouble. The others had warned him not to trust Harry — he only hit from behind. Where had the squirt gone, anyhow?
“We ain’t doin’ nothin—” Goldie began, sparring for time, as the irons were slipped over his wrists.
A powerful blow against the mouth stopped his words at once. “Shut your trap, till you’re spoken to,” ordered an officer, one of the unsleeping Strong-Arm Squad, bred in the gutters of the East Side, and by police wisdom matched against its lawlessness, as the only force that could end it. “If you don’t dry up, I’ll—”
“Aw, I wasn’t savin’ nothin,” muttered Goldie.
One of the officers meanwhile had brought up the car of the gangsters. The nine captives, including the Dropper, were divided, three to a car, with an adequate guard over each. Two officers were detailed to bring the truck of contraband rum down to the city.
“Got you this time, Goldie,” said the sergeant in command, with a complacent sneer.
“Fer what?”
“Rum runnin’ — I don’t know what else.”
“I ain’t with that gang,” said the Dropper, master of himself at last. “You know me—”
“On suspicion — Officer Reilly’s death,” the sergeant gloated.
“I got a alibi — wasn’t in Noo Yawk a-tall when they bumped him off. You ain’t got nothin’ against me — you know that, Sarge. Better turn me loose.”
“I ain’t got no evidence, no,” worried the officer aloud. “You’re a bad guy, Moe Korn — I got just one thing to say to you: Noo Yark ain’t big enough to hold you an’ the police department. We gotter git out, or you have. You get me? You gotter get out, an’ stay out. I’d turn you loose now, if you’d give me your word—”
“I ain’t with this gang,” he temporized. “Wouldn’t be caught dead workin’ with ’em. They wuz stickin’ me up! — you seen ’em. You seen me comin’ for help, ain’t you? I’m Suffolk Street—”
“I know.” The officer considered carefully. “If you don’t stay out of Noo Yark, Moe Korn, you’ll get it, an’ good — lemme warn you—”
“Lemme go now,” said the Dropper, a crafty look veiled in his eyes. He could see Abe Beck, and then — “Turn me loose here, Sarge. You know I ain’t runnin’ with them toughs.”
“Take ’em off,” ordered the sergeant curtly, after a long stare at the gangster. “These other boys is who we want. But don’t lemme catch you in the city again—”