Coffins for the Suicide Squad by Emile Tepperman

Author:Emile Tepperman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pronoun

THREE drunks had been staggering down the street from the Montrose Hotel, toward Steve. Two other men, standing near the curb, were arguing loudly about something or other. Steve suddenly discovered that all these men were clustering closely around him. At the same time, the two tailers came hurrying up from behind, and joined the press of men closing in on him. The Black and Gold taxi accelerated and pulled up alongside at the curb.

None of the men had guns in their hands. They just closed in, purposefully, grimly. The pseudo-drunks were still making noise, talking and laughing loudly. But their eyes were on Klaw. They pushed in so close that his elbows were pinned to his sides.

Simultaneously, someone opened the door of the taxicab, and it yawned invitingly. The close-pressed group of men began to surge toward that open door, half pushing and half carrying Klaw with them.

“Don’t get tough!” one of the men said. “Dunstan Vardis wants to see you. Better get in the cab without scrapping!”

Steve braced himself, and pushed against the crushing weight of the close-knit group.

“Okay,” one of them said. “He’s gonna make trouble. Sap him!”

Blackjacks appeared in several hands. They rose to slam down upon Steve’s skull.

Klaw sighed. “Sorry, boys,” he said. And he fired both automatics through the cloth of his pockets.

He fired four times with each gun, and the noise of the blasts was almost smothered by the close-pressed bodies. The slugs struck his assailants low, mostly in the groin, for they were fired at hip-height.

Blackjacks fell from nerveless hands. Men screamed in awful agony. They fell away from him as if they were puppets whose strings had been cut. Those who were not hit, turned and ran in sudden, frantic terror.

The wounded men writhed on the sidewalk at Steve’s feet. The taxi motor roared, and the cab sped away, with open door swinging wide. Men and women pedestrians rushed headlong away from the vicinity, anxious to get out of range.

Stephen Klaw did not spare a single glance for the wounded men on the sidewalk. He kept his hands on the guns in his pockets, and stepped away from the writhing mass. Black, scorched tears showed in the cloth of his overcoat as he walked toward the Montrose Hotel.

He could have stopped and waited for the police, and participated in questioning the wounded men. But he had no time. He must find Johnny Kerrigan and Dan Murdoch, and he must be in the Silver Galleon at midnight. He was sure that little information about Dunstan Vardis could be gleaned from those men. Like Joslin, they probably knew nothing about their boss. He must be content now with his temporary victory.

A moment after he stepped away from that spot, he was only one of the hundreds of pedestrians on the crowded street. It was night, and the passers-by were panic-stricken by the sudden shooting. It was certain that none would be able to point him out to the cop who was running up from the corner with drawn gun.

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