The driver of the car sat up quickly.
“Ain’t you searched them, Benny?” he asked.
“Shut up,” snapped the man on the pavement and Bob, stepping back gingerly now, caught a glimpse of the man with the gun. There was just a chance of success for a desperate play and he took the chance.
The gun in the shoulder holster was unfamiliar as was the holster, but Bob was half hidden by the darkness of the interior of the sedan. His right hand, moving like a flash, grasped the butt of the gun. Without attempting to pull it from the holster, Bob simply elevated the muzzle and pulled the trigger.
He fired by instinct as much as anything and a flash of flame stabbed the night. On the echo of the shot came a sharp cry and the man on the pavement leaped backward, his own gun replying.
Bob fired again and through the haze of smoke and the acrid smell of burning cloth saw the little man tumbling. The driver of the car swung toward Bob, but before he could get into the scrap, Bob jerked the gun from its holster and clubbed him over the head with the barrel. It was a savage blow, but he was dealing with men who knew no mercy themselves. The driver slumped forward in his seat and Bob, gun in hand, leaped from the car.
Condon Adams, who had been able to draw his own weapon, was leaning over the man on the street.
“Great work, Bob. I thought they were going to get away with this for a while.”
“Is he hurt badly?” asked Bob.
“Well, I don’t think he’s going to be doing any more mischief for a good long time. Your first one caught his right shoulder and the second one took his left leg—that’s what I’d call disabling a gangster.”