The first gangster to spring forward was the one who had been looking at the wall — the ugly man with the dirty sweater. He leaped straight at Harry, with a fiendish look upon his face.
Two others were coming from the side. Harry swung away from them, but he was directly in the path of the man who was coming toward them.
He put up his hands to ward off the man’s attack. But the sweater-clad gangster ignored him.
Instead of falling upon Harry, he threw himself against the other two men. Harry saw his fists swing with short, murderous punches. The two men, taken by surprise, went down beneath his blows.
With a shout, Volovick hurled himself forward. The scar-faced gangster crouched low, and caught Volovick’s wrist, hurling the man over his shoulder.
With his free hand he whipped a revolver from the fold of his sweater, and the staccato reports of the automatic reechoed through the room.
His shots were made with amazing precision. One crippled the wrist of a gunman, who had just drawn an automatic. Another clipped the hand of a man who was pulling a knife from beneath his coat.
Then, almost drowned by the echoes of the revolver shots, came the popping of electric light bulbs, as the scar-faced gangster used his unerring aim to plunge the room in semidarkness.
“Get to the door. Lie low against the wall.”
Harry obeyed the terse command which his rescuer uttered in a low voice. Dodging behind a table, he escaped all notice. Crouching by the door, he watched the finish of the astounding conflict.