Aubrey shook his head dismally, and leaned his hot forehead against the pane. Neither of them spoke again until they reached Manhattan Transfer, where they changed for the Hudson Terminal.
It was seven o’clock when they hurried out of the subway terminus at Atlantic Avenue. It was a raw, damp evening, but the streets had already begun to bustle with their nightly exuberance of light and colour. The yellow glitter of a pawnshop window reminded Aubrey of the small revolver in his pocket. As they passed a dark alley, he stepped aside to load the weapon.
“Have you anything of this sort with you?” he said, showing it to Roger.
“Good Lord, no,” said the bookseller. “What do you think I am, a moving-picture hero?”
Down Gissing Street the younger man set so rapid a pace that his companion had to trot to keep abreast. The placid vista of the little street was reassuring. Under the glowing effusion of the shop windows the pavement was a path of checkered brightness. In Weintraub’s pharmacy they could see the pasty-faced assistant in his stained white coat serving a beaker of hot chocolate. In the stationer’s shop people were looking over trays of Christmas cards. In the Milwaukee Lunch Aubrey saw (and envied) a sturdy citizen peacefully dipping a doughnut into a cup of coffee.
“This all seems very unreal,” said Roger.
As they neared the bookshop, Aubrey’s heart gave a jerk of apprehension. The blinds in the front windows had been drawn down. A dull shining came through them, showing that the lights were turned on inside. But why should the shades be lowered with closing time three hours away?
They reached the front door, and Aubrey was about to seize the handle when Roger halted him.
“Wait a moment,” he said. “Let’s go in quietly. There may be something queer going on.”
Aubrey turned the knob gently. The door was locked.
Roger pulled out his latchkey and cautiously released the bolt. Then he opened the door slightly—about an inch.
“You’re taller than I am,” he whispered. “Reach up and muffle the bell above the door while I open it.”
Aubrey thrust three fingers through the aperture and blocked the trigger of the gong. Then Roger pushed the door wide, and they tiptoed in.
The shop was empty, and apparently normal. They stood for an instant with pounding pulses.
From the back of the house came a clear voice, a little tremulous:
“You can do what you like, I shan’t tell you where it is. Mr. Mifflin said—”
There followed the bang of a falling chair, and a sound of rapid movement.
Aubrey was down the aisle in a flash, followed by Roger, who had delayed just long enough to close the door. He tiptoed up the steps at the back of the shop and looked into the dining room. At the instant his eyes took in the scene it seemed as though the whole room was in motion.
The cloth was spread for supper and shone white under the drop lamp. In the far corner of the room Titania was struggling in the grasp of a bearded man whom Aubrey instantly recognized as the chef. On the near side of the table, holding a revolver levelled at the girl, stood Weintraub. His back was toward the door. Aubrey could see the druggist’s sullen jaw crease and shake with anger.
Two strides took him into the room. He jammed the muzzle of his pistol against the oily cheek. “Drop it!” he said hoarsely. “You Hun!” With his left hand he seized the man’s shirt collar and drew it tight against the throat. In his tremor of rage and excitement his arms felt curiously weak, and his first thought was how impossible it would be to strangle that swinish neck.
For an instant there was a breathless tableau. The bearded man still had his hands on Titania’s shoulders. She, very pale but with brilliant eyes, gazed at Aubrey in unbelieving amazement. Weintraub stood quite motionless with both hands on the dining table, as though thinking. He felt the cold bruise of metal against the hollow of his cheek. Slowly he opened his right hand and his revolver fell on the linen cloth. Then Roger burst into the room.
Titania wrenched herself away from the chef.
“I wouldn’t give them the suitcase!” she cried.
Aubrey kept his pistol pinned against Weintraub’s face. With his left hand he picked up the druggist’s revolver. Roger was about to seize the chef, who was standing uncertainly on the other side of the table.
“Here,” said Aubrey, “take this gun. Cover this fellow and leave that one to me. I’ve got a score to settle with him.”
The chef made a movement as though to jump through the window behind him, but Aubrey flung himself upon him. He hit the man square on the nose and felt a delicious throb of satisfaction as the rubbery flesh flattened beneath his knuckles. He seized the man’s hairy throat and sank his fingers into it. The other tried to snatch the bread knife on the table, but was too late. He fell to the floor, and Aubrey throttled him savagely.
“You blasted Hun,” he grunted. “Go wrestling with girls, will you?”
Titania ran from the room, through the pantry.
Roger was holding Weintraub’s revolver in front of the German’s face.
“Look here,” he said, “what does this mean?”
“It’s all a mistake,” said the druggist suavely, though his eyes slid uneasily to and fro. “I just came in to get some books I left here earlier in the afternoon.”
“With a revolver, eh?” said Roger. “Speak up, Hindenburg, what’s the big idea?”
“It’s not my revolver,” said Weintraub. “It’s Metzger’s.”
“Where’s this suitcase of yours?” said Roger. “We’re going to have a look at it.”
“It’s all a stupid mistake,” said Weintraub. “I left a suitcase of old books here for Metzger, because I expected to go out of town this
