“Ugh,” he grunted, as he made for the door of the building to escape this little whirlwind, “we’re in for a blow; perhaps rain.”
“Fiddle!” he exclaimed a moment later, “I promised to go to Forest City with Mazie to-night. Carnival! Last of the season. Told her I’d do it if nothing turned up. But something has turned up, at least the Chief thinks it’s going to turn up.”
And just then things did turn up; at least one thing did, and not so small either. Treading on air, as if afraid of disturbing the spirit of his dead grandmother, there came tripping down the stair no less a person than Knobs Whittaker!
“Put ’em to sleep with a brick and argue with ’em afterwards,” Johnny seemed to be hearing poor old Ben Zook saying.
Knobs was carrying a square black satchel in his hand. His right hip bulged. He did not see Johnny, who stood well back in the shadows. Just as his feet touched the ground floor, as if drawn by a rocket, Knobs shot straight up from the floor to at last topple over in a heap. Johnny’s good right hand had spoken. He had obeyed the instructions of old Ben Zook.
Knobs’ sleep lasted for scarcely more than ten seconds; long enough, however, for Johnny to explore his hip pocket and draw forth an ugly-looking blue automatic. When Knobs opened his eyes he looked into the muzzle of his own gun.
The art of escape is sometimes cultivated to such a degree of perfection that it becomes automatic. The street door was open. With a motion that could scarcely be called rolling, leaping or gliding, the prostrate man went through that door. Before Johnny could block his escape, or even press the trigger of the automatic, Knobs was gone. One thing was against the fleeing one, however; he had left his gun and his black case behind.
“Evidence here,” Johnny whispered to himself. “Valuable evidence, beyond a doubt.”
Then, following a rule he had laid down for himself: “Always do the thing that’s least expected,” instead of following the man, he picked up the black bag and sprang lightly up the stairs and out of sight. He did not stop at the first landing, nor the second; but continued to the third, where, after hurrying down the hall, he threw back the iron shutters of the hall window, tossed the bag out, and jumped to the flat roof below. After that he lost no time in making his way down a fire escape to the ground.
After a hasty glance up and down the alley, he gripped the handle of Knobs’ automatic with his right hand, and carrying the black bag in his left, walked with a leisurely and nonchalant air down the alley and out on the side street. To all appearances the street was deserted. Apparently no one had seen him emerge from the alley. He was thankful for that.