There had been no other way to dispose of them. If the car from the north had stopped at a different angle, or if the other car had not moved, the light would not have shone upon them, and the Japanese might not have suspected where they were. Or, if Orme had tossed them a few feet farther to one side, they would have been out of the range of the light. But there they lay.
Arima leaped toward them. Even as he started, a figure appeared at the other side of the road and walked over toward the two cars. It was a man with brass buttons and policeman’s helmet. He walked with authority, and he held a stout club in his hand.
“What’s goin’ on here?” he demanded. Arima stopped in his tracks.
To Orme, at this moment, came the memory of the girl’s desire to avoid publicity. “Nothing wrong,” he said.
The policeman stared. “I’ve been watchin’ you from over there,” he said. “It looks like nothin’ wrong, with men fighting all over the ground.”
“Just a little trial of strength,” explained Orme.
“Trial of strength, hey?”
“Well,” admitted Orme, “this man”—pointing to Arima—“wanted something that I had. It’s not a matter for the police.”
“Oh, it ain’t? Somebody’s been hurt.” He gestured with his club toward the shadows where the three injured men were slowly coming back to their senses.
“Not seriously,” said Orme.