THE men in the Pink Rat were toughened fighters. Even those who were not with Volovick recognized an enemy in the scar-faced gangster.
They saw him as he shot the lights. They threw themselves into the fray. Six of them leaped to the same objective.
The man in the sweater no longer depended upon his automatic. Seizing one of the light benches, he used it as a mighty cudgel, striking out amid the gloom.
He handled his strange weapon as easily as if it had been a cane. He struck down one attacker at the side. Turning, he met the others head-on, and Harry could hear the thud of falling bodies.
Revolver shots flashed through the semidarkness. Men screamed as the bullets found their mark. But through it all, the solitary fighter seemed gifted with a charmed existence.
With a mighty effort, he flung the bench across the room, where it struck a man and deflected the aim of the fellow’s automatic. Then the lone fighter was gone.
Curses and groans pervaded the room. Volovick’s flashlight appeared, directed toward the spot where the scar-faced gangster had waged his terrific fight. But it revealed only the forms of wounded gangsters who had fallen in the attack.
A hand plucked Harry Vincent by the arm. It was the man who had rescued him. The sweater-clad gangster had slipped between the tables, and had reached the door.
Together, he and Harry reached the stairs and hurried downward. Their flight was just in time. Shots came from behind them, and they could hear the cries of the thwarted gangsters.
The battle had been short and rapid. The sound of the shots had not yet attracted people from the street. Harry’s companion uttered a shrill whistle; a taxicab rolled up from a short distance away.