It was the garage keeper, the Boss—at last!
Policemen had come up in the meantime, and several minutes were consumed while Garrick proved to them his identity.
"What was that thing the fellow in the forward car whirled over his head?" I whispered.
"A revolver, I think," returned Garrick. "That's a favourite trick of the gunmen. With a stout cord tied to a gun you can catapult it far enough to destroy the evidence that will hold you under the Sullivan law, at least. I mean to get that gun as soon as we are through with this fellow here."
Someone had turned in a call for an ambulance which came jangling up soon after, and we stood in a group close to the young surgeon as he worked to bring around the captured gangster.
"Where's the Chief?" he mumbled, dazed.
Garrick motioned to us to be quiet.
The man rambled on with a few inconsequential remarks, then opened his eyes, caught sight of the white coated surgeon working over him, of us standing behind, and of the crowd about him.
Memory of what had happened flitted back to him. With an effort he was himself again, close-mouthed, after the manner of the gangsters.
The surgeon had done all in his power and the man was sufficiently recovered to be taken to the hospital, now, under arrest. As far as we were concerned, our work was done. The Boss could be found now, at any time that we needed him, but that he would speak all the traditions of gangland made impossible.