Bender switched on the light on the table by the bed and there stood the taxi driver, gun in hand, his cap on side-wise and excitement in his eyes.
“For—sake!” Bender rasped. “Where the hell did you come from?”
“I saw 'em, I saw 'em,” he said. “I knew they were up to something so I followed 'em up the fire-escape. When Botchey shot at you I located him and gave him the works.”
Bender swore and grinned.
“By—!” he said in a nasty bass, “you're the—guardian angel I ever had.”
The taxi driver came over and said: “Look—you're shot!” Blood was pouring down Bender's forearm and the upper part of his pajama sleeves was stained crimson.
“Yeah,” he said. “Call a doctor or something for these guys.”
The taxi driver went to the telephone and Bender went around the bed.
Botchey Miller on his side on the floor, a hole in his temple and one in his neck, but he was still breathing. Bender had to pull the other man off the bed to identify him, and he slid to the floor in a heap.
It was Jim Lovell, the chief of police. His right hand relaxed and stretched out and came close to a six-inch stiletto that lay gleaming on the floor. Lovell was hit once below the right eye and the bullet had ranged upward and come out at the back of his head.