The hunch-shouldered man in back grumbled: “I don’t like ridin’ next to a stiff.” But the door closed again softly.
OF the six swarthy passengers in the car, five of them were alive.
Ernie, the thick-set man who was their leader, cautiously opened the door and peered out. His squinting eyes strained to pierce the gloom. From a distance came the lonesome rumble of an elevated train. Aside from that — silence.
He cursed under his breath. Then, an instant later, he suddenly tensed. Through the stillness he heard faintly the exhaust of a heavy-duty truck’s motor.
Ernie’s eyes glittered. The three men in the rear seat shifted slightly, their ratlike faces tense, strained.
Soon headlights flashed on the stalled touring car. The brakes of the moving vehicle, a huge storage van, ground to a halt.
From its covered driver’s seat, two men leaped out. They seemed in a hurry; impatient to get the obstructing car out the way. They shouted gruff inquiries.
“Give ‘em the works,” spat Ernie. Suddenly the curtained doors of the touring car swung open. The gangsters poured out; swarmed upon the van men.
A quick scuffle; the panting sound of blows. A metal-incased fist slammed against the jaw of the larger man, the van’s driver. He slumped to the street like a wet paper bag.
The smaller man grappled with two of the gangsters, then fell as though stricken dead when a heavy wrench crashed over his ear.