three feet to one side, next to Alpert. Hymie stood over by the white-faced and terrified girl on the divan.
Nason felt the pressure of Hymie's gun in the pocket of his coat. Whether it was overconfidence, or just plain oversight on Alpert's part, that gun had not been taken from him. One thing was certain. He had nothing to lose.
He saw Lascell's gun come up, saw Alpert stand aside. He looked over at the girl who sat rigidly erect, her mouth half-open. Then he said, keeping his voice as level as he could:
“I guess I'd better get my drink while I can.”
“Never mind!” Lascell ordered.
Nason did not dare look at the gunman. Concentrating on his job he picked up a glass, quickly poured whiskey and began to squirt soda from the siphon.
“If this is going to be my last drink—” He glanced up, grinned at Lascell. Then, moving as he talked, he twisted his wrist sharply and shot the driving stream of soda into Lascell's face. The gunman cursed as the charged water slapped against the bridge of his nose and filled his eyes. Momentarily blinded, he ducked, turned his head.
Pivoting and still holding to the handle of the bottle, Nason hurled it at Hymie and jerked at the gun in his pocket. He saw the heavy bottle smash into Hymie's forehead, heard the crash as it shattered, saw the fellow start to sag. Then his gun was out.
LASCELL lost another second trying to free his automatic from the towel. In the final instant that the gun flashed upward, Nason squeezed the trigger. Recoil was a welcome slap at his wrist. The gun roared and Lascell's body jerked under the impact of the slug, and he fired once, wildly, before he dropped the gun.
Nason kept turning, but before he could face Alpert he saw the compact automatic swing up in the man's fat hand.
He sensed that he was going to be hit. He felt his nerves instinctively set themselves for the shock, and he tried to twist to one side as he fired. Alpert's gun crashed first. Nason saw the faint flash of orange flame, felt the searing pain at the side of his neck. Then the roar of his heavier gun blotted out the sound of the little automatic.
Surprise flooded Alpert's face. He staggered, tried to bring the gun up again. This time Nason fired deliberately. And at the moment, strangely enough, he found himself thinking of Donigan who had died without a chance from a bullet in his back.
Lascell was already on the floor. Alpert's hand came down. His fingers relaxed and the gun thudded to the carpet. For another second or two he swayed drunkenly on his widespread feet. Then he went down on his knees and fell over on his face.
Nason jerked his gaze from the picture of death. Rita Jordan pressed white-knuckled fists to the side of her cheeks and stared wildly at Hymie who was lying on his face, with glass fragments scattered about him, his hair soaked with blood and water.
Nason lowered his gun. Powder smoke choked the stale air. He blew out his breath and felt a sudden weakness undermine his tension. He stood there motionless with the sweat coming out on his face and the blood seeping down to wet his collar until a sudden noise broke the silence behind him.
Spinning about with his gun up, he was just in time to see Walcott topple in through the window from the fire escape and sprawl to the floor on top of his plate case.
Nason cursed softly, relaxed. Walcott rose, eyes wide and popping behind his glasses. His mouth sagged.
“Boy,” he breathed. “How you go. I heard the shots and I—” He pulled out his tripod, and his voice was choked with admiration and eagerness as he added: “With what I'm going to get I'll have a job again.”
LIEUTENANT Fitzpatrick stood spread-legged in the center of the room until Nason finished his story. Then he shook his head from side to side and said:
“What an idea! If Steig had been finished in the first place, we'd've been licked.”
His eyes narrowed as he hesitated. “At that, if you hadn't thought to check with the hospital girl— ” He pursed his lips. “That was smart.”
Nason said, “It took me long enough to think of it.”
He sat in a chair by the door now, a handkerchief pressed to the side of his neck. “But there had to be some angle, because I knew Donigan. He never was a crook.”
Fitzpatrick's keen eyes held a look of respect. “Okay. You were right and I was wrong. I'm damned glad of it.”
He glanced at the two plainclothesmen who were inspecting the bodies; at the now conscious and glowering Hymie; at the girl.
“Alpert and Lascell won't give us any more trouble. We'll get Hymie and this punk, Leo—if he's still alive—for the hospital kill. And Donigan”—Fitzpatrick shook his head again— “boy, am I glad he was an honest cop.
“Anyway,” he said, “I was right about one thing. You had to show more than personality. It wasn't personality that got you out of this jam.”
“Personality, hell!” grunted Walcott, slipping another plate holder into his camera. “I think they must've got him sore. And when he gets sore he gets tough.”
“I wasn't sore,” Nason said quietly, in the tone of a man who, unaware of his surroundings, was thinking of other things. “Donigan never had a chance. I had one and I took it.”
