Then the tall New Yorker leisurely brought out his other automatic and backed against the door. He pushed it open, and slipped out into the night.
“Don’t let him get away!” shouted the bartender.
Three men leaped to the door, drawing their guns as they advanced. They were sure that Monk Thurman would be fleeing down the street, and they were eager for the pursuit.
But as the first man crossed the threshold, there was a pistol shot outside. The gangster dropped with a bullet in his shoulder, and the two that followed him stopped suddenly.
“Go get him!” cried the bartender.
“Nothing doing,” growled one of the mobsmen. “Leave him to Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak. They’ll tail him until they get him.”
A policeman poked his head into the saloon. He looked cautiously around. It was his duty to report any disturbance on Larrigan’s premises, but experience had taught him that discretion was advisable.
“Any trouble, boys?” he asked pleasantly.
“Naw,” replied the bartender. “Some smart gorilla just fired a couple shots and beat it. Don’t know where he is now. Guess he’s a mile away by this time.”
The bartender’s estimate of distance was exaggerated. At that particular moment, Monk Thurman was strolling leisurely along the street, less than a block away. He hailed a taxicab, and ordered the driver to take him to a large hotel in the Loop.