They failed to bag Carpenter, for he had acted with instinctive promptness. He knew that the chair was in the danger zone, and he dived away from it. Shots aimed toward the hall brought down one gunman, but that was all.
The guns of the gangsters roared, and into the shaft of light from the inner room appeared the detectives, one staggering, the other crawling, as they sought the single way that offered safety. Loud oaths sounded as the relentless killers mercilessly shot down their fleeing foemen.
The echoes of the firing ended. The room was silent. Upon the floor lay the murdered detectives, their bodies riddled with lead. The gangsters awaited answering shots. None came. The light was switched on again.
The scene revealed the one-sidedness of the brief fray — nine gunmen against two detectives and a pair of unarmed men.
One wounded gangster lay beside the outer door; the others were crouched and standing; with smoking revolvers in their hands.
Curiously enough, the two defenseless men had escaped death. Had Gifford Morton attempted escape to the inner room, he would have died instantly. But he had dropped behind the door that he had opened. Close to the floor, he had been in a solitary spot of security.
Gorman was crouched below the window. The bespectacled secretary was a pitiful sight. Directly beyond Carpenter’s chair, on a line with the door, he had been avoided. The gangsters had fired at the men whom they knew could fight back.
Herbert Carpenter, his face flushed with excitement, arose from beside the chair. A pallor stole over his features as he saw the murdered detectives.
Slaughter was not his forte. He was a crime master of a different type. He seemed to realize that he was responsible for the massacre, inasmuch as these fiends had come to his aid.
Triumph gleamed upon every face among that crew of evil raiders. These mobsmen knew the lust for blood. They liked to see men die. They showed a sordid satisfaction over their heinous work.