Raven said, as the cage slid to a standstill, “Gettin’ out’s goin’ to be a picnic. Shoot first an’ talk after.”
He stepped out of the elevator and began a stiff−legged walk down the corridor.
His suite was round the first bend.
Little Joe took off his hat and wiped his face with his sleeve. This was scaring hell out of him. He clutched his blunt−nose automatic, ready to flop at the first burst of fire.
Raven crept to the bend in the corridor. Every sound was muffled by the heavy carpet. He knew this was sheer madness, but he wasn’t going to part with all that dough without a fight. If he got his hands on it he was all right. The thought of once more being on the run, without money, frightened him far more than a hail of lead.
He looked round the bend. Two cops stood in the passage looking towards him. They saw him at the same time as he saw them. He swung up his Thompson and gave them a short burst. The sudden clatter of the gun as it spat lead crashed down the corridor. One of the cops fell forward on his face, but the other darted into Raven’s room.
Swearing softly, Raven ran forward, the others following him. The door was open, and Raven paused as he reached it. He had no intention of rushing in. Kneeling down, he swung the muzzle of the gun round the door, spraying lead.
A revolver cracked twice in reply and bullets thudded into the opposite wall. Raven glanced at the wall, saw the angle, which told him the cop was lying down, and lowered the muzzle, firing at the same time.
He heard the cop give a gasp, and he took a chance. He burst into the room, firing wildly. The cop was lying in a pool of blood, the top of his head blown off.
Maltz crowded in and, holding his gun at his hip, ran into the other rooms. There was no one else there.