The heavy-calibered pistol swished downward. But the blow was never completed.
A powerful, unseen hand had come from the darkness; steel-like fingers had grappled on Ernie’s thick wrist.
A quick, strong twist, and Ernie found himself thrown flat on his back in the street.
In the dim glare of the van’s lights, a black-clad figure swung into the fray. Like a huge bat in human form, the figure struck with his fists. At each blow, a gangster went down.
There followed a mocking laugh — eerie, sinister. The mysterious interloper had disappeared into nothingness. But the small, low-hung sedan was coursing away as noiselessly as it had earlier arrived.
Ernie rose to his knees in time to see the shadowlike car gliding swiftly away.
As if hypnotized, Ernie swayed, the memory of that mocking laugh still stinging his ears. But there came then a more earthly sound to spur the gangster into action.
The shrill alarm of a police whistle!
Ernie struggled to his feet. He rested a moment on the fender of the van, then, hands deep in pockets, hatbrim pulled down, he walked off, not too hurriedly, in the opposite direction from whence had come the warning blast.
He knew that those gorillas — lying senseless in the street — wouldn’t talk — if they wanted to take up living again.