Tom’s eyes followed his gaze. And he saw what Josh had been staring at. There was a section up there, about six inches square, that was obviously a little opening. And the section was swinging silently inward.
Tom started to yell. Was a gun going to be poked in that small hole, to mow down the three of them? Was this death, coming in?
He choked the sound as he realized that this was not logical.
The little opening was moving very furtively. There would be no reason to conceal its movement from Tom and Josh and Rosabel, because they were helpless. Therefore, it must have been done to keep Blinky from knowing it. It must be a friend moving the panel.
Then he saw a part of a face in the opening, and held his breath. Rather, he saw a part of a veil, beneath which only dimly could a woman’s face be seen.
A veiled woman! It was a veiled woman who had helped him once before — at the bank getaway.
A hand appeared where the face had been. In the hand was a curious little sack that glistened dully. A forefinger pointed at Blinky, whose back was toward the opening.
Tom didn’t get the silent message, but quick-witted Josh did. Do something to distract the attention of the guard.
Josh suddenly began to fight his bonds, writhing noisily on the floor as if he had abruptly gone crazy with fear of approaching death. Blinky guffawed, and watched him.
“That’s the stuff. Just one more heave and maybe you can get loose. Maybe!”
The hand in the opening had tossed the little sack and now the opening didn’t show any more. Tom looked sideways at what he held.
The sack was of semi-transparent oiled silk. Within it was soft fabric. He opened the sack a little and a sickish sweet odor came to his nostrils.
Josh was making even more noise, and Blinky was enjoying even more the seeming frenzy of the Negro. His attention was off Tom.
Tom leaped!
Still weak and dazed from the blow on the head, Tom couldn’t conceivably have overcome Blinky in a straight tussle. But in the oiled-silk bag tossed by the veiled woman was a wad of cotton soaked in chloroform. And that did the trick.
Blinky heaved and fought against the stuff jammed to his nose and mouth. He almost got away from Tom twice. But in a minute or less he lay on the floor, out, breathing heavily.
Tom untied Josh and Rosabel.
“Out of here, fast,” he whispered.
“And then?” said Josh sardonically, as he frisked Blinky for the key to the door lock.
“To Mr. Benson’s place,” said Tom humbly.
“Oh! You don’t think you’re so smart any more!”
Tom winced. But he had it coming, and he knew it.
Josh got the key. Softly he opened the door and looked out.
The top-floor hall was empty. The three tiptoed to the rear stairs and down. They landed in the kitchen of the place. There were two men there, indifferently throwing some chicken sandwiches and salads together for any of The Corners’ patrons indiscreet enough to order food. Josh crept upon one and Tom on the other.
They struck together, and the two in soiled chefs’ whites sagged to the unclean floor. Tom and Josh took their guns.
“Look out!” Rosabel screamed.
The two crouched, and shots went over their heads. Their luck was gone. In the doorway were three men, and behind them could be heard the steps of others.
There was a big butcher’s block next to them. Swearing at the ill luck that had let them come so close to escape and then gone back on them, Tom tipped the block over.
He and Josh crouched behind it, with two feet of hard maple as a shield. The men at the door came toward the block, changed their minds as a bullet got one in the leg and another in the arm. They found shelter, too.
For the moment Tom and Josh could hold them off. But the moment couldn’t last long. There were too many of Luckow’s men around the place. In two minutes, or more, the three who had thought to escape death would be killed or captured again.
CHAPTER XVI
My Brother’s Killer
The shots Mac and Smitty kept hearing as they sped toward The Corners, came from the rear of the place. So they went to the front. And they didn’t exactly sneak in.
Smitty piled on the doorman, whose back was turned while he stared down the hall toward the rear. The doorman was six feet six, picked for his height and bulk. He looked like a child against Smitty’s six feet nine and his nearly three hundred pounds of brawn. He went down with a single blow. Smitty went on, with Mac behind him.
The hat-check girl began to scream like a calliope as the two men raced past and into the café rooms. Some of Luckow’s men hadn’t yet reached the kitchen. They whirled from the end door of the main room and began shooting at the giant and the sandy-haired Scot.
Mac picked up a heavy glass water pitcher and hurled it. It caught one of the men in the skull and he went down. Smitty didn’t bother with stuff as light as pitchers.
The giant picked up a chair and threw it the length of the room. It tangled up with another gunman’s arms. The two raced on.
Some of the bullets were thudding against their bodies, stopped by the celluglass garments. Their kick slowed Mac a little, but not Smitty.
There were still two Luckow men in the doorway of the short hall going back to the kitchen.
Smitty got the two as they turned in terror and tried to flee. His big hands each found a throat, and his great fingers squeezed.
Then he dropped the two limp bodies and picked up a table.
The patrons in the café room were yelling or screaming according to their sex. But none were trying to interfere. So the giant ignored them.
With the table before him, he started ramming down the hall to where he could see a knot of men still firing into the kitchen. The table was little use as a shield, but it did prevent those down there from seeing where the giant’s head was. His head, after all, was vulnerable.
The knot at the kitchen door had split by now. Some were still firing into the kitchen to try to get Tom and Josh. The others turned and tried to get the giant and the Scot who raced toward them behind the table in the giant’s hands.
Smitty kept right on going. He hit the knot of men as if he hadn’t been aware at all of their existence.
There were yells as Smitty did his best to squeeze seven men through a doorway that couldn’t have taken more than two at once. Bodies jammed and bones broke! It was as if a tank had hit the group.
No one of the seven was shooting, now. All were in a tangle of arms and legs that made them look like a heap of puppets carelessly piled in one disorderly snarl.
Smitty trod on the table, with men underneath it, as he forced his way into the kitchen. Mac came after him. A face showed before Smitty’s, disappeared again as a huge fist made a red mess of it.
“Door!” yelled Mac.
Rosabel and Tom and Josh ran for it. Smitty and Mac went behind them, covering them. From the jumble of men at the door, one propped on an elbow and carefully aimed at Mac.
Smitty’s hand jerked. The massive butcher’s block behind which Tom and Josh had crouched, suddenly seemed to come alive. It slid like a rocket across the floor and banged into the gunman; then Mac and the giant were outside with the others.
“Across the fields,” panted Josh, leading the way toward his car — and, though he didn’t know it — toward the one Mac and Smitty had come in, also.
The five began to run across fields.
There was a slow, vengefully careful shot. Tom yelled and clutched his arm.
“Down!” snapped Mac.
The five dropped. There was death behind them. They didn’t dare delay. But there was death in front of them, too, barring their path.
Another careful shot rang out. Smitty saw Tom’s hair stir, the bullet had been so close.