“I can’t find anything but a hatchet.”
Smothered cursing told that the “boss” was still on the other side of the door. Then he also seemed to run down stairs. Presently Carlson heard hammering or pounding, far below, and at last a crushing and crumbling sound, as if something heavy had given way. What were the scoundrels doing?
Then footsteps again, coming up the stairs, but more slowly this time. And as they came, there was an occasional bumping sound, as if they were carrying some bulky object which now and then struck the walls or stairs.
When they were opposite the door, something heavy hit the floor. Then, once more, the sullen voice of the “boss.”
“Listen, Doc! I don’t know what you’ve done to Tony, and what’s more I don’t give a damn, if you open the door now.”
Silence. Carlson thought he could hear their heavy breathing. As a psychologist he knew that his own silence, and that of Tony, had a horror about it that was telling severely, even on their hardened nerves.
“This is your last chance, Doc! If you open the door now, you can go, and take your fee, and be damned. But if you won’t open, I’m going to break down the door, and then—you’ll leave here in a coupla suit cases. Do you get me?”
Silence! After about a quarter of a minute, the “boss” said:
“Now then! All together!”
Carlson braced himself. But suddenly the woman screamed, “Stop!”