Ronicky started for the head of the stairs to make
his retreat, but, just as he reached there, the party
turned into the hall and confronted him.
Mistaken Identity
To flee down the stairs now would be rank folly.
If there happened to be among these fellows a man
of the type of him who sneered, a bullet would catch
the fugitive long before he reached the bottom of the
staircase. And, since he could not retreat, Ronicky
went slowly and steadily ahead, for, certainly, if
he stood still, he would be spoken to. He would
have to rely now on the very dim light in this hall
and the shadow of his cap obscuring his face.
If these were roomers, perhaps he would be taken for
some newcomer.
But he was hailed at once, and a hand was laid on
his shoulder.
“Hello, Pete. What’s the dope?”
Ronicky shrugged the hand away and went on.
“Won’t talk, curse him. That’s
because the plant went fluey.”
“Maybe not; Pete don’t talk much, except
to the old man.”
“Lemme get at him,” said a third voice.
“Beat it down to Rooney’s. I’m
going up with Pete and get what he knows.”
And, as Ronicky turned onto the next flight of the
stairway, he was overtaken by hurrying feet.
The other two had already scurried down toward the
front door of the house.
“I got some stuff in my room, Pete,” said
the friendly fellow who had overtaken him. “Come
up and have a jolt, and we can have a talk. ‘Lefty’
and Monahan think you went flop on the job, but I know
better, eh? The old man always picks you for
these singles; he never gives me a shot at ’em.”
Then he added: “Here we are!” And,
opening a door in the first hall, he stepped to the
center of the room and fumbled at a chain that broke
loose and tinkled against glass; eventually he snapped
on an electric light. Ronicky Doone saw a powerfully
built, bull-necked man, with a soft hat pulled far
down on his head. Then the man turned.
It was much against the grain for Ronicky Doone to
attack a man by surprise, but necessity is a stern
ruler. And the necessity which made him strike
made him hit with the speed of a snapping whiplash
and the weight of a sledge hammer. Before the
other was fully turned that iron-hard set of knuckles
crashed against the base of his jaw.
He fell without a murmur, without a struggle, Ronicky
catching him in his arms to break the weight of the
fall. It was a complete knock-out. The dull
eyes, which looked up from the floor, saw nothing.
The square, rather brutal, face was relaxed as if
in sleep, but here was the type of man who would recuperate
with great speed.
Ronicky set about the obvious task which lay before
him, as fast as he could. In the man’s
coat pocket he found a handkerchief which, hard knotted,
would serve as a gag. The window curtain was drawn
with a stout, thick cord. Ronicky slashed off
a convenient length of it and secured the hands and
feet of his victim, before he turned the fellow on
his face.
