As he did so, Harleston’s slippered foot shot out and drove hard into the other’s stomach. With a grunt Crenshaw doubled up from pain. The next instant, Harleston caught his wrist and the struggle was on.
It was not for long, however. Crenshaw was outweighed and outstrengthed; and Harleston quickly bore him to the floor, where a sharp blow on the fingers sent the automatic flying.
“If it were not for spoiling the devil’s handiwork, my fine friend, I’d smash your face,” Harleston remarked.
“Smash it!” the other panted. “I’ll promise—to smash yours—at the first opportunity.”
“Which latter smashing won’t be until some years later,” Harleston retorted, as he turned Crenshaw over. Bearing on him with all his weight, he loosed his own pajama-cord and tied the man’s hands behind him. Next he kicked off his pajama trousers, and with them bound Crenshaw’s ankles. Then he dragged him to a chair and plunked him into it, securing him there by a strap.
“It’s scarcely necessary to gag you,” he remarked pleasantly. “In your case, an outcry would be embarrassing only to yourself.”
“What do you intend to do with me?” Crenshaw demanded.
“Ultimately, you mean. I have not decided. It may depend on what I find.”
“Find?”
Harleston nodded. “In your pockets.”