Cates’ face was very grim as he bent over the wheel. The low-lived murderer! Strike with deadly precision and then run from the law! Well, he wouldn’t strike much more—not if Dave Cates had anything to say about it.
At the house Margolo got out and fastened his glittering gaze upon his driver. Cates was thankful for the shadow cast by the visor of his chauffeur’s cap.
“Take this car back to the garage,” ordered the gangster, “and remember—it wasn’t out tonight. If the cops ask you, you didn’t see nothin’ nor hear nothin’. See?”
Again Cates nodded, not daring to trust his voice. As he drew away from the curb he glanced at his watch. Almost eight—time to be getting up to the microphone. That thought came to him mechanically. It is the unforgivable sin for a radio announcer to be late. What should he do?
The capture of the gunmen was of first importance. Should he go directly to the Warren Avenue station and notify the police there? No, because that was a small detail, with only one or two reserve men. It would take too long for the desk sergeant to summon the men on the street. Too, it would take too long to telephone the other details.
It was three minutes to eight. Deciding, Dave Cates pulled to the curb, leaped out, and raced back toward the old garage, careful to go by a back way so that Margolo’s men would not see him.
At the doorway a small figure rose out of the gloom. Dave Cates’ hand flashed to his armpit. Then, “How’d you get here?” he gasped.
Already she had anticipated his surprise, and had written her message. Barely Cates made it out:
“I wanted to see you broadcast, no matter how dangerous the locality might be. Please don’t be angry.”
Angry! How could he be angry with her for anything? Even now a warm glow suffused him at the thought that she was willing to share danger with him. Still, because the ideal in his heart was a precious and fragile thing, he dared not hope too much.