Three shots sounded from the coupe. The hands of the cab driver became nerveless. His foot sought the brake pedal, but it slipped, helpless, before any pressure was exerted.
The taxi left the road and crashed among the trees, the driver hanging from the side of the front seat.
One side of the cab was tipped. Burke, completely oblivious, slipped to that side. The motor’s rhythm ceased.
The coupe turned and came up alongside the wrecked taxicab. The driver of the pursuing car leaped to the road, and yanked at the door of the cab. It yielded to his efforts.
He seized the inert form of Clyde Burke and dragged it from the cab. Lifting the man with ease, he placed him beside the driver’s seat in the coupe.
Burke gasped, and his eyelids flickered. The man who had carried him smiled grimly. He first made sure that Burke was resting easily, with his head beside the open window. Then he went back to the taxicab, where he lifted the face of the driver, and stared at the man’s features. He seemed to recognize the face.
“Dead,” he said softly. “One less gunman in New York.”
The speaker went to the back of the cab, and turned on the interior light. He noticed something beneath the back seat. Reaching in, his hand encountered an opening.
“From the exhaust,” he murmured. “Carbon monoxide. A few minutes more—”
The chugging of a motor cycle reached his ears. Then came the raucous sound of a police horn.