But Andy was not easily discouraged and he ordered his own taxi to return to the street on which they had been when Blatz had started his zig-zig tactics. There was a possibility that the cab he sought might return and continue its journey from that point. His hunch was correct and within ten minutes the machine he had lost rolled down the street. This time his driver put out his lights and they followed, Andy in the meantime having agreed to fend off any police charges that might be brought for running without lights.
He was less than two hundred yards away when Blatz entered the warehouse and Andy was slipping into the building when the night watchman returned and caught him.
The challenge was in Rubanian, a language unfamiliar to Andy. He replied in American, explaining that he was looking for a friend who was to meet him at that address.
The explanation failed to satisfy the watchman, who ordered Andy out. The watchman was too anxious to get rid of him and Andy refused to leave. The attack followed almost instantly, and the burly watchman hurled himself at the slender airman with surprising speed.
Taken unaware, Andy went down in a heap. He struggled to his feet and turned to face the next rush by the watchman. He partially fended off the first blow but another, starting low and coming up with tremendous force, caught him on the point of the chin. His knees wobbled, a mist clouded his eyes, his mouth was strangely dry and he had a sensation of falling from a great height. Then a curtain of darkness descended.
The watchman picked him up carried him into the elevator, and finally walked into Vendra’s office with the unconscious Andy in his arms.
Blatz started back in white-faced amazement.
“Is he badly hurt?” he asked.
“No,” grunted the watchman. “He’ll come around in a few minutes. He struck his head against a door sill when I knocked him down.”
“This is terrible,” said Blatz. “Now Andy’s suspicions of me will be confirmed. It will be no use for me to return to Bellevue after this.”