"I had a hunch this might happen," he said, taking my arm. "The car's up ahead. Vinelli came here as quick as he could, but he slipped coming along the street and broke his ankle."
"Judas!" I said. "I am sorry! I feel responsible. Where are we going?"
He didn't answer me at first; he just kept hurrying me along. One of those New York siroccos was pretending to cool the city, and at the corner I saw his old coupe with the parking lights on. A saloon next to us was closing up and a few late customers came out onto the sidewalk. One customer, on seeing me, stopped and turned to the others.
"That's the guy I was telling you about! That's Graham!"
I saw then that it was our telephone repairman from the afternoon. He looked reasonably sober, but his friends did not.
"Oh, yeah?" one of these said, eying me belligerently. "I thought we just heard Bill Bart broadcast the cops had him."
"Right," said another of them. "He's escaped! I'll hold him and you go on in and phone 'em."
"Nah, the joint's closed. Police station's right around the corner. I'll go tell 'em. Hold onto him now!"
The repairman and three of his pals began to advance warily and the other one ran down Charles Street, but at that moment we heard excited yapping and a small dog chasing a cat came tearing up the street. The cat had a fish head in its mouth and, ignoring us, ran through the middle of the group, dropping the fish head. The dog followed almost instantly, only he ran between the repairman's legs, upsetting him. In falling, the repairman tripped his neighbor, who fell on him, and another one fell on top of them. The remaining one stepped on the fish head.
"Black cat!" he cried as he joined the others on the sidewalk. "Crossed my path!"