The mob wouldn’t want to walk into Sam’s bar and kill him in front of witnesses. They would fix it to get him somewhere alone, and through her they had got him alone!
His hand flew to the inside of his coat as he heard a key turn in the lock behind him. He spun round in time to see the door to the girl’s apartment was opening slowly.
He didn’t hesitate. Swinging up the gun, he fired, aiming to the right and just a little above the door handle. The slug smashed through the door, spraying wood splinters, and Pete heard a gasping groan, then the sound of a heavy fall behind the door.
He spun around and threw himself down the stairs, taking three stairs at a time. He ran blindly along the short passage to the head of the stairs leading to the hall. He took these in two jumps, arriving in the hall with a crash that shook the house.
The girl, her eyes wide with fright, crouched against the wall, her hands crossed over her breasts, her painted mouth wide open in a soundless scream.
He jumped to the front door, stopped as he saw through the glass panels, two men coming up the steps.
He recognized them: Goetz and Buzz Conforti, two of Maurer’s expert killers. He sprang back, his heart contracting, then turned and retreated down the passage that ran to the right of the hall.
He reached the girl as she dived for the stairs, grabbed hold of her, turned her so her back was to him, and keeping her against him, his left arm round her waist so she was shielding his body, he continued to back down the passage.
“Scream or try to get away and I’ll kill you,” he panted. “Is there a way out at the back?”
“Let me go!” she gasped, digging her nails into his wrist.
He gave her a chopping blow on her shoulder with the gun barrel, making her squeal.
“Is there a way out at the back?”
“Yes.”
The front door burst open and Goetz jumped into the hall.
Pete took a hurried shot at him. The girl screamed wildly as she felt the heat of the gun-flash. Goetz dropped down on one knee, his dark, vicious face creased in a snarl.
“Don’t shoot!” the girl screamed, waving her hands imploringly as Goetz swung up a .45.
Pete continued to back away, dragging the girl with him. He saw Goetz trying to get the sight of his gun on to him, but Pete kept his head down, hoisting the girl higher so she completely concealed him.
She kicked out wildly, her shoes flying off and her white skirt riding above her thighs.
Pete’s back thudded against a door. He fired again at Goetz, a near miss this time, for Goetz’s hat flew off.
Goetz’s finger squeezed the trigger and the heavy gun went off. He fired three times. The bullets slammed into the girl’s writhing body. Pete could feel the shock of them.
The girl stiffened so violently she nearly jerked herself out of his grip, then she went limp; the sudden dead weight almost pulling him off balance.
He groped behind him, found a door handle, turned it and pulled the door open.
Conforti had crawled into the hall by now. As he lifted his gun, Pete fired at him. Not waiting to see the result of his shot, he threw the body of the girl from him, jumped back through the open doorway, slammed the door and ran madly down a small yard, heaved himself over a wooden fence and landed, sobbing for breath, in a twisting, narrow alley.
He sprinted down the alley, hearing the sound of foot-falls behind him. He ran for some hundred yards, following the twisting alley, keeping close to the wooden fence.
Ahead of him he could see the main street with its traffic and crowds. He somehow managed to increase his speed and reached the street just as Goetz turned the last bend in the alley.
Goetz half raised his gun as he caught sight of Pete, but lowered it as Pete vanished round the corner.
Pete dashed through the crowds that thronged the street, pushing people out of his way. He had concealed his gun in his coat pocket, but people stared after him, sensing something was wrong, startled by his sweating, frightened face.
He was out in the open now. Any second a car would overtake him, and he would be cut down. He paused at the edge of the kerb, his chest heaving, while he looked to right and left. He saw a taxi, and he waved frantically. The taxi swung, to the kerb and pulled up beside him.
“The park,” Pete gasped, and wrenched open the cab door.
Hands grabbed his arms from behind and he gave a cry of terror as he looked around. Two big patrolmen had hold of him.
“Take it easy,” one of them said. “We want you, Weiner. Get his rod, Jack.”
The other cop expertly found Pete’s gun and shoved it into his hip pocket.
“We’ll take the cab,” the first cop said. “Headquarters, bud, and snap it up.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Pete caught sight of a big black car bearing down on the taxi.
“Look out!” he yelled, and wrenched himself free from the cop who was holding him. He flung himself face down on the floor of the cab as the black car swept past.
Above the noise of the traffic came the violent hammering of a machine-gun.
The cab rocked crazily under the impact of the hail of bullets. One of the cops was caught across his face by a burst from the machine-gun. His head and face
dissolved into a mess of blood and smashed bone.
The other cop threw himself down on top of Pete. The taxi driver was caught by the tail end of the burst. The shock of the bullets smashing into him lifted him out of the cab and flung him on the sidewalk.
The crowd on the street broke and ran in all directions, yelling and screaming. Several of them were caught by the burst and lay in huddled heaps on the sidewalk and the street.
The black car swept on and disappeared around the corner. The big cop covering Pete got unsteadily to his feet.
“The bastards!” he said through clenched teeth. “The goddamn bastards!”
He dragged Pete out of the cab.
“Come on, you!” he snarled, and ran Pete across the sidewalk into the sheltering porch of a store. He wedged Pete into a corner between two plateglass windows and stood in front of him, gun in hand.
“Get me inside!” Pete shouted excitedly. “You goddamn fool! Do you imagine glass’ll stop bullets?”
“Shut your trap!” the cop snarled. “There ain’t going to be no bullets.”
Even as he spoke the black car made its second run. The crowds on the street, seeing it coming, flattened on the sidewalks or dashed madly into the shops and stores for shelter.
Cars, swerving to avoid the black car that came straight down the middle of the street, mounted the kerbs. One car crashed through a plate-glass window.
“Look out!” Pete screamed, and shoving the cop with all his strength gained enough room to lie fiat.
The cop, as brave and as stupid as a charging rhino, started firing at the car as it swept past. The answering burst of fire from the concealed machine-gun was devastating. The cop seemed to fly to pieces as the whip lash of bullets tore open his chest and flung him back on to Pete.
The car braked and pulled up. Goetz and Conforti spilled out of the car, their
faces glistening with sweat, their mouths wide open with soundless yelling.
They had been told to get Pete at all costs, and they were carrying out orders.
Somewhere in the porch of the shop, under the dead cop and the heap of smashed glass, was Pete, and they knew it.
Conforti held the Thompson. Goetz had a gun in each hand.
Conforti started spraying the porch with bullets as he ran towards it.
Pete saw the line of bullets hammering into the sidewalk, spraying chips of concrete, and advancing like a carpet of death towards him.
He pulled the dead cop over him, held on to his belt, feeling the dead cop’s blood dripping on his face, and he shut his eyes.