Five minutes later he was at the parking garage. Smith was waiting for him, a withered crow in a huge overcoat. The old man’s fingers were tapping nervously on the cane.
“Come on,” Holt said. “We’d better move fast now.”
“Did you—”
“I knocked him cold. He didn’t have a gun-or else he didn’t want to use it. Lucky for me.”
Smith grimaced. Holt recovered his taxi and maneuvered down the ramp, handling the car gingerly and keeping on the alert. A cab was plenty easy to spot. The dimout helped.
He kept south and east to the Bowery, but at Essex Street, by the subway station, the pursuers caught up. Holt swung into a side street. His left elbow, resting on the window frame, went numb and icy cold.
He steered with his right hand until the feeling wore off. The Williamsburg Bridge took him into Kings, and he dodged and alternately speeded and backtracked until he’d lost the shadows again. That took time. And there was still a long distance to go, by this circuitous route.
Holt, turning right, worked his way south to Prospect Park and then east, toward the lonely beach section between Brighton Beach and Canarsie. Smith, huddled in back, had made no sound.
“So far, so good,” Holt said over his shoulder. “My arm’s in shape again, anyhow.”
“What happened to it?”
“Must have hit my funny-bone.”
“No,” Smith said, “that was a paralyzer. Like this.” He exhibited the cane.
Holt didn’t get it. He kept driving until they were nearly at their destination. He pulled up around the corner from a liquor Store.
“I’m getting a bottle,” he said. “It’s too cold and rainy without a shot of something to pep me up.”
“We haven’t time.”
“Sure we have.”
Smith bit his lip but made no further objection. Holt bought a pint of rye and, back in the cab, took a swig, after offering his fare a drink and getting a shake of the head for answer.
The rye definitely helped. The night was intensely cold and miserable; squalls of rain swept across the street, sluicing down the windshield. The worn wipers didn’t help much. The wind screamed like a banshee.
“We’re close enough,” Smith suggested. “Better stop here. Find a place to hide the taxicab.”
“Where? These are all private houses.”
“A driveway…
“O.K.,” Holt said, and found one shielded by overhanging trees and rank bushes. He turned off lights and motor and got out, hunching his chin down and turning up the collar of his slicker. The rain instantly drenched him. It came down with a steady, torrential pour, pattering noisily staccato in the puddles. Underfoot was sandy, slippery mud.
“Wait a sec,” Holt said, and returned to the cab for his flashlight. “All set. Now what?”
“Keaton’s house.” Smith was shivering convulsively. “It ‘isn’t eleven yet. We’ll have to wait.”
They waited, concealed in the bushes on Keaton’s grounds. The house was a looming shadow against the fluctuating curtain of drenched darkness. A lighted window on the ground floor showed part of what seemed to be a library. The sound of breakers, throbbing heavily, came from their left.
Water trickled down inside Holt’s collar. He cursed quietly. He was earning his thousand bucks, all right. But Smith was going through the same discomfort and not complaining about it.
“Isn’t it—”
“Sh-h!” Smith warned. “The others may be here.”
Obediently, Holt lowered his voice. “Then they’ll be drowned, too. Are they after the notebook?
Why don’t they go in and get it?”
Smith bit his nails. “They want it destroyed.”
“That’s what the guy in the alley said, come to think of it.” Holt nodded, startled. “Who are they, anyhow?”
“Never mind. They don’t belong here. Do you remember what I told you, Denny?”
“About getting the notebook? What’ll I do if the safe isn’t open?”
“It will be,” Smith said confidently. “Soon, now. Keaton is in his cellar laboratory, finishing his experiment.”
Through the lighted window a shadow flickered. Holt leaned forward; he felt Smith go tense as wire beside him. A tiny gasp ripped from the old man’s throat.
A man had entered the library. He went to the wall, swung aside a curtain, and stood there, his back to Holt. Presently he stepped back, opening the door of a safe.
“Ready!” Smith said. “This is it! He’s writing down the final step of the formula. The explosion will come in a minute now. When it does, Denny, give me a minute to get away and cause a disturbance, if the others are here.”
“I don’t think they are.”
Smith shook his head. “Do as I say. Run for the house and get the notebook.”
“Then what?”
“Then get out of here as fast as you can. Don’t let them catch you, whatever you do.”
“What about you?”
Smith’s eyes blazed with intense, violent command, shining out of the windy dark. “Forget me, Denny! I’ll be safe.”
“You hired me as a bodyguard.”
“I’m discharging you, then. This is vitally important, more important than my life. That notebook must be in your hands—”
“For the War Department?”
“For… oh yes. You’ll do that, now, Denny?”
Holt hesitated. “If it’s that important—”
“It is. It is!”
“O.K., then.”
The man in the house was at a desk, writing. Suddenly the window blew out. The sound of the blast was muffled, as though its source was underground, but Holt felt the ground shake beneath him. He saw Keaton spring up, take a half step away and return, snatching up the notebook. The physicist ran to the wall safe, threw the book into it, swung the door shut and paused there briefly, his back to Holt.
Then he darted out of Holt’s range of vision and was gone.
Smith said, his voice coming out in excited spurts, “He didn’t have time to lock it. Wait till you hear me, Denny, and then get that notebook!”
Holt said, “O.K.,” but Smith was already gone, running through the bushes. A yell from the house heralded red flames sweeping out a distant, ground-floor window. Something fell crashingly, masonry, Holt thought, He heard Smith’s voice. He could not see the man in the rain, but there was the noise of a scuffle. Briefly Holt hesitated. Blue pencils of light streaked through the rain, wan and vague in the distance.
He ought to help Smith-He’d promised, though, and there was the notebook. The pursuers had wanted it destroyed. And now, quite obviously, the house was going up in flames. Of Keaton there was no trace.
He ran for the lighted window. There was plenty of time to get the notebook before the fire became dangerous.
From the corner of his eye he saw a dark figure cutting in toward him. Holt slipped on his brass knuckles. If the guy had a gun it would be unfortunate; otherwise, fair enough.
The man-the same one Holt had encountered in the Forty-second Street alley-raised a cane and aimed it. A wan blue pencil of light streaked out. Holt felt his legs go dead and crashed down heavily.
The other man kept running. Holt, struggling to his feet, threw himself desperately forward. No use.
The flames were brightening the night now. The tall, dark figure loomed for an instant against the library window; then the man had clambered over the sill. Holt, his legs stiff, managed to keep his balance and lurch forward. It was agony: like pins and needles a thousand times intensified.
He made it to the window, and, clinging to the sill, stared into the room. His opponent was busy at the safe. Holt swung himself through the window and hobbled toward the man.