But Mackin had paused in the middle of the block, to light a cigarette. The wind was blowing, and he had not been particularly successful. The touring car was well ahead of him at the crossing. It kept on, and turned at the next corner.
Reds reached the crossing, and moved along the block. He looked at the number over a doorway. It was two doors from his desired address. He looked down the street. A touring car was coming toward him, at a fairly rapid rate of speed.
The car passed under a light some twenty feet away. At that instant, Reds Mackin caught the gleam of metal.
With a quick, instinctive motion, he dived forward on the pavement, behind a cluster of filled ash cans that stood on the sidewalk, near the curb.
Simultaneously, the sharp rattle of a machine gun came from the touring car. The automobile swept by, delivering a mechanical cannonade that made a terrific noise in the narrow street.
The death-dealing bullets were loosened at the same split-second as Reds Mackin’s dive. His mind had worked independently of the brain behind the gun. The raking bullets buried themselves in the ashes.
In the area of thirty feet covered by the bullets, there was but one small spot where a man could have remained, and lived. On the spur of the instant, Reds Mackin had found that blind spot, behind the chance shelter of the filled ash cans.
The man operating the gun realized what had happened; but the driver of the car was staring straight ahead. A series of oaths were uttered as the rain of bullets ended, and the automobile had passed on.
* * *
Reds Mackin was as quick up as he had been down. He dashed into the entrance of the house to which he had come. The door opened at his touch. He closed it, and moved toward the stairs. There was a dim light at the top.