Louie half turned to free himself from the artful Grabber. As he did so, the Grabber's ready right hand brought his pistol into action, and one bullet and then another flashed through Louie's brain. A slim form rushed out of the dark hallway, and fired two bullets into Louie's body. Louie was dead before he struck the pavement.
The Grabber, with his slim companion, darted through the dark hallway, out a rear door and over a back fence. Sixty seconds later they were quietly walking in Thirteenth Street, examples of law-abiding peace.
“It was th' easiest ever, Slimmy!” whispered the Grabber, when he had recovered his breath. “I knew that stall about Laura'd fetch him.”
“Who was at th' Hesper Club?”
“On'y Candy Phil, th' Lobster Kid an' two or three other blokes. Every one of 'em's a right guy. They won't rap.”
“Thim la-a-ads,” remarked the Wop, judiciously, when he heard of Louie's taking off—“thim la-a-ads musht 'av lost their heads. There's six or seven hundred bones on that bum, an' they niver copped a splinter!”
The word came two ways to the Central Office. One report said “Indian Louie” and another “Johnny Spanish.” Detective O'Farrell invaded Chinatown, and dug up Big Mike Abrams, that the doubt might be removed.
“It's Indian Louie, all right,” said Big Mike, following a moment's silent survey of the rigid form. Then, in a most unlooked for vein of sentiment: “They all get here at last!”
“That's no dream!” agreed the morgue attendant. “An', say, Mike”—he liked his joke as well as any other—“I've been expectin' you for some time.”
“Sure!” returned Big Mike, with a friendly grin; “I'll come chasin' along, feet foist, some mornin'. But don't forget that while I'm waitin' I'm workin'. I've sent two stiffs down here to youse already, to help keep you goin' till I comes. Accordin' to th' chances, however, me own turn oughtn't to be so very far away.”