He turned toward the hallway and watched six men, well dressed but with terror-stricken eyes, approach the room. They were accompanied by four tight-lipped, narrow-eyed men with automatics.
One of the well-dressed men was bald. He looked up as he stepped into the room, and his eyes fell on Harper. The eyes widened with recognition and hope. He stepped forward, “Harper—” The word died in his throat, the eyes went dull as a guard pulled him toward the opening in the wall. Harper turned away.
Wyman said, “Three of you take these birds down to the corner place and wait. Lefty”—he turned to a husky fellow with yellow skin and a crooked nose—“you'll have to carry the stiff in the hall. We want this place all cleaned up. Leave the elevator door open.”
He nodded his head to Slug who took Harper by the arms, and said, “Come on, baby. I want to see you do your dive.”
THE flat, gravel-covered roof crunched under Harper's shoes as Slug piloted him between the mushroom-like skylight covers to the two-foot parapet. Overhead the stars glistened. To the left and in front winked a network of city lights.
Slug stopped at the parapet and said, “Say when, boss.”
Wyman, holding an automatic, stood up against the wall about two feet from Harper. He said, “Take those cuffs off first. I don't want any slugs in him, nothing that might look too funny. The mashed hand won't matter when they pick him up, and nobody can prove he didn't fall by himself.”
He turned to Harper, who stood motionless in the darkness with only his black mustache visible in the pale oval which was his face. “You have cramped my style, plenty. But at that, I'll be clear when we get rid of our club members.”
He chuckled softly and continued, “When you bounce down on the alley, the cops are going to be busy picking you up. Slug and I will use our elevator. All the cops'll find is an empty clubhouse—let the D.A. try and build a case out of that.”
“All right, Slug.” Wyman's voice was decisive. “Take off the bracelets.”
Slug, standing behind Harper, fumbled with the handcuffs. He slipped them off, started to say:
“O.—”
Harper kicked backward with his heel. Slug yelled as the sharp edge bit into his shin. Harper spun toward Wyman, crouching. The automatic went off a foot from his chest and the flash of fire revealed a gray, tight-lipped face and livid eyes.
The crouch saved his life. The bullet tore through his chest, but it was high. The shock of the slug spun him sidewise as his hand jerked the pencil from his sleeve. There was a click, a burst of white vapor around Wyman's head as the tear-gas shell exploded.
Harper's body rocked as Slug's fist struck the top of his head.
Cursing, Wyman dropped the gun. He coughed, rubbed his eyes. He staggered against the wall, paused there, mouthing oaths, trying to see. Harper shot a straight left to Slug's mouth, stepped sidewise toward Wyman. Slug lowered his head and charged, both hands swinging.
Harper dropped like a shot, landed on his hands and knees. Slug's charge carried him blindly forward so that he tripped over Harper's kneeling form. The wild, swinging right fist swished through space for a foot, then connected solidly with Wyman's shoulder an instant before Slug himself fell forward against the man.
Wyman screamed as Slug's charge knocked him hard against the wall. For a moment he sat there on the parapet, his hands swinging, clutching frantically at empty space. Then he lost his balance and slid backward. The scream rose in pitch, became one long, drawn-out wail that became weirdly fainter and finally choked off short.
Harper cursed softly and rolled from under Slug's legs. He gained his feet instantly, stooped, snatched up Wyman's automatic. He jumped back, covering Slug. But there was no fight in the man now. He came to his feet slowly, weaved back and forth like a drunken man, shivering violently.
“All right,” he said hoarsely. “I won't argue.” He waved his hand toward the spot where Wyman disappeared. “I won't argue, after that.” He shuffled off across the roof toward the yellow square that marked the stairs to the floor below.
GALPIN and five men were entering the door at the end of the hall when Harper emerged from the front room. Harper said, “You got men on the corner?” And at Galpin's, “Yes,” continued, “Take this guy with you.”
He drew them into the room, showed them the door to the elevator. “The rest of them have gone— they'll be in the plumbing place on the corner.”
Harper waited until Slug and the policemen had disappeared through the hole in the wall. His face was still gray. His eyes were dull and his shoulders had a tired, unnatural sag as he walked across the room to a stand holding a half-filled whisky bottle and some glasses.
He picked up a glass, turned it over in his hand, and stared absently at it for several seconds. Then he poured whisky into the glass until it was half- full. He drank quickly, without stopping. Reaching toward the tray, he dropped the glass the last few inches.
He went back to an upholstered chair. He dropped into it, stretched out his legs in front of him. His hands hung down from the chair arms; he let his fingers relax. The gun dropped to the floor, and he stared up at the ceiling until he heard Charlie come pounding down the hall.