For a few seconds, Vernay lay quietly, then he struggled into violent motion. He scrambled to get to his feet, his left hand groping at his belt. Stan caught the glint of polished steel. He stepped quickly around the man, poising himself.
It was no use, he thought. This would have to be decisive. He brought his two hands up to his shoulder, then swung them like an axe, stepping into the swing as Vernay got his feet under him.
The impact of the blow brought Vernay to a standing position. As the man stood swaying, Stan swung his hands again.
Vernay's back arched and for an instant he was rigid. Then he stumbled forward, to pitch against the wall.
Briefly, he was braced upright against the wall, his left hand high on the stones, the scalpel glittering. Then the hand relaxed and the sliver of steel clattered to the paving. Slowly, the man slid down, to melt into a shapeless heap in the gutter.
Stan sighed, then shook his head and wiped an arm across his eyes.
There was a concerted sigh behind him.
"Go ahead, kid," someone muttered. "Give him the boots. Big phony hadda go trying a knife."
Stan turned. "No use," he said wearily. "I just hope he's still alive."
"I don't get it," said someone. "He wants this guy alive?"