Sybarite's first overtly offensive move had struck
them all dumb in terror.
Red November was one who had shot down his man in cold blood on the
steps of the Criminal Courts Building and, through the favour of The
Organisation that breeds such pests, escaped scot-free under the
convenient fiction of "suspended sentence"; and knowing well the
nature and the power of the man, the primal concerted thought had been
to flee the place before bullets began to fly. In blind panic like
that of sheep, they rose as one in uproar and surged toward the outer
doors. November himself, struggling up from beneath the table, was
caught and swept on willy-nilly in the front rank of the stampede. In
a thought he found himself wedged tight in a press clogging the door.
Before his enraged vision P. Sybarite was winning away with the boy.
Maddened, the gang leader managed to free his right arm and send a
haphazard shot after them.
Only the instinctive recoil of those about him deflected his aim.
The report was one with a shock of shattered plate-glass: the
soft-nosed bullet, splashing upon the glazed upper half of the door,
caused the entire pane to collapse and disappear with the quickness of
magic.
Halting, P. Sybarite wheeled and dropped a hand to the pocket wherein
rested Mrs. Inche's automatic.
"Get that door open!" he cried to the boy. "I've got a taxi waiting--"
His words were drowned out by the thunderous detonations set up by a
second shot in that constricted space.
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