She let him put the hat on her head, standing like a lifeless doll, but cringing a little every time his damp, hot fingers touched her skin.
“Come on,” Slim said, “let’s go.”
He led her into the bathroom, paused to look out of the window down into the yard below, satisfied himself there was no one about, then helped the girl through the window onto the escape.
They went down the escape, Slim holding her arm and pushing her down quickly. On the last stage, a man looked out of the window as they passed. He was fat, balding and elderly.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
Slim looked at him, his yellow eyes gleaming. The man stepped back hurriedly. Slim’s pale thin face, his loose mouth and gleaming eyes, his long, unkempt hair hanging from under his hat scared the man silly.
Slim had parked the Buick at the end of the alley. He hustled Miss Blandish to the car and pushed her in. He went around to the driver’s seat and got in. He paused to open the glove compartment and to take out the.45 that was always kept there. He put the gun under his right thigh, then he started the car and drove into the main street.
As he headed for the club, the wail of a police siren made him stiffen. He looked into the driving mirror. He saw the traffic behind him pulling over to the right, clearing a broad lane in the middle of the road. He too pulled to the right as he saw three police cars come storming up behind him. They flashed past him. Wondering uneasily where they were going, he followed on behind. After a few minutes, he suddenly realized they were slowing down to stop outside the entrance to the courtyard of the Paradise Club.
In sudden panic, he swung the Buick into a side street, cutting across an overtaking car that braked with a violent scream of tires. He pulled up and looked back in time to see a dozen policemen spill out of the cars and run across the courtyard to the club.
He felt sweat on his face. What was he to do? Where was he to go? He looked at Miss Blandish who was staring blankly through the windshield. He felt lost and scared without Ma and the steel door and shutters of the club. His sluggish mind tried to cope with the situation.
“Hey, you!”
He looked to his right. A cop was looking into the car, first at Slim and then at Miss Blandish. Slim recognized him. He was the patrolman of the district: a big, fiery-faced Mick who always pushed the Grisson gang around when he had the chance.
“I want you,” the cop said and his hand slid to his gun holster.
Slim’s hand dropped on the hidden.45, lifted it and fired in one quick fluent movement. The slug hit the cop in the middle of his chest, throwing him half across the sidewalk.
Miss Blandish screamed. Startled, Slim swung his hand in a backhand slap, hitting her across the mouth, jerking her hard back against the car seat.
Several passersby flattened themselves on the sidewalk.
Swearing, Slim dropped his gun onto the car seat, then started the car and pulled away, accelerating as a man yelled after him.
Slim was vicious in his fear. His one thought was to get onto the open road where he could use the vast speed of the car.
Fenner and Brennan were just leaving a newly arrived police car as Slim shot the cop. The sound of the gun going off made both men pause. They saw the Buick tearing down the street, scattering other cars.
Fenner ran to the dead cop while Brennan signaled to three motorcycle cops to go after the Buick. They went away with roaring exhausts. Then Brennan joined Fenner who shook his head.
“He’s gone,” he said. “Who could that have been?”
“One of the Grisson gang,” Brennan said grimly. “Come on, let’s get at the rest of them. That rat won’t get far.”
More police were arriving. The street was becoming congested with a gaping crowd.
Inside the club, Ma Grisson watched the activity going on outside through one of the peepholes in the steel shutter that covered her office window.
Flynn peered through another peephole. Woppy cowered against the wall. Doc Williams sat near Ma’s desk. He had a glass half full of neat whiskey in his hand: his face was shiny with sweat, his eyes glassy.
Ma turned slowly and looked first at Doc and then at Woppy. Flynn stepped back, looking at her.
“Well, here it is,” Ma said in a cold hard voice. “This is the end of the road. I don’t have to tell you what’s ahead of us.”
Flynn was cool. His small, flat eyes were restless, but he didn’t look afraid. Woppy seemed on the point of collapse. His eyes rolled with terror. Doc took a swig from his glass, shrugging his shoulders. He was too drunk to have any emotions.
Ma plodded across the room, opened a closet and took out a Thompson machine gun.
“You guys can please yourselves,” she said. “I know what I’m going to do. Those coppers won’t take me alive. I’ll get a hell of a bang taking a few of the bastards with me.”
Flynn joined her. He too took a machine gun from the closet.
“I’m with you, Ma,” he said. “Let’s make it quick and gory.”
There came a hammering on the steel door. Then a voice, magnified by a loudspeaker bawled, “Come on out, you in there! Come on out with your hands in the air!”
“They’ll take some time to bust in,” Ma said. She went to her desk and sat down. She put the Thompson on the desk, pointing towards the door. “Okay, boys, leave me. This is my room and this is where I want to die. You find your own holes. Go on... beat it.”
Doc said, “Why not let them in?” He finished his whiskey and set the glass down on the desk. “We have money, Ma. We can hire the best lawyers. We still have a chance.”
Ma smiled contemptuously.
“Do you think so? You poor old drunken fool! Go ahead if you feel that way about it. Find yourself a lawyer and see where he gets you. I know better. Just get out of here and leave me alone.”
Flynn had already gone. He ran through the dark restaurant to the stairs. The sound of hammering on the steel door made him pause in the lobby. He looked around, then he slid behind the counter guarding the stairs. He rested his Thompson on the counter and waited, his heart thumping, his thin lips screwed off his teeth in a vicious grin.
Woppy came charging out into the lobby. He looked like a rabbit hunted by a fox. As he started towards the front entrance, Flynn yelled at him, “Don’t do it or I’ll cut you to pieces!”
Woppy spun around and glared frantically at Flynn.
“I’ve got to get out of here!” he yammered. “I don’t want to get killed! I just want to get out of here!”
“You’ve got nowhere to go now,” Flynn said. “You have no future either. Come here.”
A gun banged behind Flynn. Woppy’s face suddenly became a crimson smear. He fell forward and rolled over, his hands clawing the air.
Crouching, Flynn spun around. Above him at the head of the stairs, two cops had appeared guns in hand.
As Flynn nipped back the trigger of the Thompson, he realized the cops had found a way into the club through the warehouse and this was indeed the end of the road.
The Thompson hammered out its message of death. The two cops seemed to dissolve under the hail of lead. Then another Thompson started up from somewhere above the stairs.
Flynn crouched down as a sheet of lead swept just above his head. He was sweating and grinning, thinking this was the way to die — hit and be hit.
He twisted around, lifted the barrel of his gun and peered around the edge of his cover. The Thompson above yammered out its deadly, roaring note. Four slugs took the top of Flynn’s head off. He was firing back as he slumped down onto the carpet in a mess of blood and brains.