It was that darkest hour just before dawn. The alleys were deep wells of shadow. The streets were deserted. A lone milk wagon in the distance rattled over the pavement. Curlie felt in his pocket. A single bill and some change reposed there. He drew forth the bill and unfolded it. By the uncertain light he read a “one” in the corner.
“No taxi this time,” he grumbled. “All of eight miles, and I’m practically broke. Street car for mine.”
But there were no street cars, nor even tracks.
“Have to go west.” He turned a corner to trudge along in the dark.
His active mind began going over the words of Fritz Lieber. “Bolsheviks,” he murmured once. And again, “no church, no God, no future life, no home, no mother.
“And yet,” he told himself, “those men are not really criminals. They are mistaken, that’s all—on the wrong track.
“It takes a rather hard sort of man to force an aviator down in the dark. But then, did they do that? Can’t prove it. Can’t prove anything. Some band of robbers may have learned of the value of this package. They may have decided to force me down and take it. Well, they didn’t succeed. They—”
His thoughts were broken off by sounds of an apparent struggle just ahead. There was not time to step aside. Three men came tumbling into him. Before the sudden impact he went down.
He was on his feet in an instant. But during that instant something was gone. For ten seconds his benumbed senses registered nothing. Then his lips parted in an exclamation.
“The package! They have it!”