The tar-black room was deathly still—but it was not entirely dark! Glimmering at him, shoulder high from four sides, were small patches of shivering fire which might have come from the pits of the damned. Fighting the clutches of a nightmare, he started to raise his gun. The fire jumped and quivered. Then he knew he was standing in a spot flanked by four large mirrors.
“Christ, above,” he moaned like a man under torture. “That stuff’s on me!”
Like a man gone mad he tore the coat from his back, watching the play of the flickering fires in the glass. He involuntarily stepped backward, and bumped against the framework of the old bar. With a motion of ridding himself of some evil serpent—he slung the coat across the bar and leaped to one side.
It started to slip gently to the floor—the patch of wavering light on its back moving slowly, but almost as it moved the heaviness of thrown steel swished past Stan’s head from the balcony above. The coat stopped falling. It was pinned deep to the bar with an anlace—driven through the patch of Bologna phosphorous which had marked Stan Rice for slaughter!
Stan fired once—but before he could shoot again the weight of a man jumping from above smashed him down to the floor.
Chapter XXIX
Stan’s right arm was crumpled helplessly under him, his gun gone, flung into the darkness by the terrific impact of his assailant. Over his head the twitching phosphorescence of the luminous paint on his coat, flickered like an evil beacon marking the location of the anlace.
Stan went limp, relaxing every muscle. He was no match for the bulging corded strength of the man on top of him. Already one stealing hand was searching for his throat. He knew the other was reaching above to pluck the knife from the side of the bar.
His ruse worked. Overconfident at Stan’s passiveness the man shifted slightly and leaned closer to the bar. With the violence of insanity Stan jerked up a knee into the man’s groin, smashing out blindly with his good left, and rolled clear.
Panther quick, he was on his feet, but his right arm hung useless at his side, tearing him with pain. He stumbled against the bottom of the steps, and started blindly up them running away from death. The coat had dropped to the floor.
He had one chance. If he could get around the balcony and find the stairs down in the room on the west side—he might get to the basement and out. It was an idea fathered by a hopeless plight. If there were no stairs in the room he was trapped—unarmed and with a broken arm, and every move he made, every step he took, might draw the white beam of a flashlight with a knife or bullet speeding down its ray.
Tears of agony were in his blue eyes as he backed against the wall and sidled along—then a cork popped at the head of the stairs and a finger of flame showed briefly. Two feet to his left a bullet from the silenced automatic tore rendingly through the rotten wood. He knew then that his pursuer was on the balcony—and had heard him—but his heart beat less wildly. The owner of the gun had proved that he carried no flashlight.
Flattened against the wall Stan took a quarter from his pocket and counted ten before he tossed it, lefthanded, as far as he could throw past the stairs. It fell with a metallic ring—giving itself away and no receding footsteps answered. Above all things he needed time—ten minutes—five minutes—and the police were due, but he did not dare wait longer. Back to wall he dragged himself along, steadily weakening from the rampaging torment grinding at his arm and shoulder. Forgetful of noise, he foolishly hurried. His back struck a door which swung open. Inside were two steps down, and unable to save himself, he fell Hat again. Before he could move he was pinned to the floor, almost welcoming the relief which he knew would come when the knife above him struck home.
A flashlight shone—white and cold, caressing the pearl handle of a wicked gun he had seen before—touching the Item of a green silk raincoat. The muzzle was close to the graying hair of the man on top—reflected rays of the flashlight burnished the knife in his hand.
“You better reef a mainsail, Commander Fishface,” said Millie LaFrance sweetly, “or little Millie will blow off your navy blue bottom with her pretty popgun.” Her voice shrilled just before Stan passed out. “I mean get off of him, Dawson, and drop that knife or I’ll blow your goddamn soul to hell!”
Afterwards, the night was never more than a bad dream to Stan. The rending screech of sirens—the battering pop of motor-cycles—the splintering of wood as boarded windows fell before an ax—struck on ears gone deaf with pain. A blue ethereal haze supported him as the ambulance sped to Jackson Memorial. In bed he opened dull eyes to the stab of a hypodermic, but the lids dragged heavily, so he closed them again and floated peacefully away.
“There’s a man to see you,” Miss Leslie announced, her capped head thrust in the door.
Stan beckoned her in. “Is he in a uniform?”
“Yes.” She patted a pillow into place. “He’s been here twice this morning-and three times yesterday.”
“He’s come to arrest me for murder. Tell him to go away—that mother and son are doing nicely—anything, but hurry so you can come back and give me my bath.”
“Why, you’ve already had your bath—” Miss Leslie stopped, blushing pinkly.
“There’s something so soothing about your hands running up and down my spine.” He gave a blissful sigh. “You taught me to be a bathophile.”
“I’m sending in the policeman,” she stated primly. “And
