It was time to stop running and do some fast thinking if I ever expected to get out of this situation alive. I stepped off the tracks, flattening my back against one of the steel girders.
They came within ten yards of me before they, too, had to leap off the track.
First, there was the single yellow eye on the front of the oncoming trolley. And then there was a swelling, racketing noise as it sped down the tracks toward us. The men might have been able to switch to the other track, only there was a second trolley approaching from that direction. The two streetcars would pass each other just about where we were standing between the sets of tracks.
I don’t know if they expected me to try to leap onto the back of one of the streetcars. It can’t be done. Not in real life. Not at the speed a trolley goes when it’s in the tunnel and has a string of green signal lights in front of it.
The roar became almost unbearable. My eardrums felt ready to split. There was the rush of air being pushed ahead of the two cars, the rocking of the long steel bodies, and the smashing surge of air pressure as the two great masses whipped past one another.
In the bellowing, racketing noise, I dropped to the track level, closing my eyes tightly. I couldn’t afford to be blinded by either the headlights on the cars or by soot whipped into my eyes from their passage.
And then the cars were gone. I could open my eyes and I could see.
The three men were on the right side of the tracks, where they’d dodged into an alcove in the tunnel wall. They were pressed together like sardines.
Still lying prone, dirt, soot and debris of the concrete floor of the tunnel trackage grinding all along the length of my body, I slowly raised my head and right arm. It wasn’t quite enough. I brought up my left arm and leaned on both elbows as I aimed Wilhelmina with both hands.
The targets were only ten yards away from me. At ten yards, even in the semi-gloom, they were hard to miss.
I didn’t miss.
I got off two, fast, aimed shots and rolled quickly onto my back, the steel girder support giving me the best protection I could ask for.
The dying echoes of the Luger’s crack-crack barely covered their screams. I heard one of them cry out for help, and I saw him stumble along the track. He tripped, falling in a headlong sprawl only a few feet away from me, his face in clear view. His eyes stared appealingly at me for a long moment, and then the begging, helpless look was gone. One hand tried to reach out to me. It fell limply along his side. Black soot was streaked on his face as if he were mourning his own death, and on his shirt the black was mixed with the bright crimson of the blood that gouted from the hole in his chest.
The other man lay in a heap right in front of the alcove.
There was still one more to go.
I looked down at Wilhelmina. Her elbow action was cocked at its furthermost rearward travel. I’d used up the last bullet in the clip! I started to reach into my pocket for another clip of 9mm bullets before I remembered I hadn’t taken any along with me. A clip of rounds for a Luger isn’t something you want to carry in your pocket for any length of time. It’s heavy.
Wilhelmina was helpless now. And so was Pierre. In a confined space, the gas in that miniature bomb will paralyze anything around, but the tunnel was open at each end and there was a strong draft through it. Strong enough to disperse any of the fumes Pierre could generate.
That left me with Hugo, so I slid the narrow blade out of its sheath and held the knife firmly in my right hand. If I could get close to my remaining attacker, I’d be able to do more than just defend myself. The trouble was that he had a gun, and I knew he’d do his best to keep me at a distance where he could pick me off at an opportune moment.
The man lying dead beside me was no help either. I picked up the gun he dropped when he stumbled to his death. It was a Smith & Wesson .32 calibre revolver with a two-inch barrel. It’s a weapon to be used at close range only. This one was completely useless to me because the only thing left in each of its six chambers was a cylindrical copper cartridge casing. He’d fired every round. I wondered if he’d known he was coming after me with an empty gun. It’s happened before. In the excitement of the chase, a green man will get carried away and forget to keep track of the rounds he’s fired. Just when he needs it most, the hammer of his weapon will click harmlessly down on an expended round.
A quick search of his pockets proved fruitless. He carried no extra ammunition.
I rolled over to the opposite tracks, trying to keep my last assailant in view. I got a glimpse of him scuttling across the tracks. It was enough.
I slipped off my loafers. I couldn’t afford to have an accidental scrape of leather on concrete betray my whereabouts. Rising to a crouch, I moved out onto the trackage he’d just crossed, trying to come up behind him. I got two girder lengths from him before I heard his heavy breathing and cut back in again, putting the safety of the steel beam between us.
Now we were separated by only a few feet. I knew exactly where he was. The question was, did he know my whereabouts?
The gloom began to grow lighter. I realized a trolley was approaching. But on which set of tracks? If it came down the inbound line, the driver would see the dead body and slam on his brakes. He might still hit it, but in any case, within minutes the tunnel would be filled with police.
I peered down the tracks and drew a sigh of relief. The trolley was speeding down the outbound lane.
Now, if I could only take advantage of the noise and the dust and dirt whipping the air to get to my opponent!
Patiently I waited, trying to control my breathing, bringing myself to the fine pitch of tension I needed for the final attack. The streetcar was fifty yards away, then ten, then five. Then it was blasting away beside me, rocking from side to side, metal wheels screeching on metal tracks, the tunnel filled with the violence of its passage. I sprang to my feet and ran after it.
As I did so, the last man came sprinting out of his niche head on toward me. He’d had the same plan in mind!
We met in full collision. His arm came swinging at my head, his gun clenched in his hand, and I flung my fist and forearm up at him with Hugo pointing into his soft guts.
My left arm knocked his hand away. His left arm knocked my right arm to one side. Neither of us succeeded in striking a fatal blow. But he made me drop Hugo.
Then we were together, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, pounding at each other’s faces, forgetting for the moment every fighting trick we knew.
You have to be sure of your footing to engage in karate, kung fu, judo or any of the other martial arts. You have to be sure that you’re not going to stumble over any one of a dozen things that can turn an ankle or twist your foot when you least expect it. That tunnel trackage, with its steel rails and old wooden ties and loose gravel between them, and dirt and debris strewn everywhere in the darkness, was no place to take a chance on losing your balance. One slip and I’d be dead.
My opponent was strictly a street fighter, a barroom brawler, a back alley thug. Fists, elbows, knees and teeth. I kept his arms too busy to give him a chance to fire his pistol. He should have reversed his hold and tried to slug me with the butt.
He punched at me. I grabbed his wrist and tried to bend it back. He was too strong for that trick to work. I slugged him in the gut. It was like hitting a canvas sack of sand. There was a little give, but that’s all.
He tried for my eyes with his fingers. The nails raked my cheek as I twisted my head away and grabbed at his fingers. I caught two of them and bent them backwards. I heard the crack of knuckles being dislocated and his choked-off cry of pain.