Mooney swore under his breath and vowed never to trust anyone again,
especially a bartender's brother; but just then it happened. Out of the
snowy bushes stepped a man in a red bandanna, holding a gun. "This is a
stickup! Gimme that bag!"
Mooney exulted.
There was no chance for Harse now. The man was leaping toward him;
there would be no time for him to open the bag, take out the weapon....
But he didn't have to. There was a thin, singing, whining sound from
the bag. It leaped out of Harse's hand, leaped free as though it had
invisible wings, and flew at the man in the red bandanna. The man
stumbled and jumped aside, the eyes incredulous over the mask. The
silvery flat metal kit spun round him, whining. It circled him once,
spiraled up. Behind it, like a smoke trail from a destroyer, a pale
blue mist streamed backward. It surrounded the man and hid him.
The bag flew back into Harse's hand.
The violet mist thinned and disappeared.
And the man was gone, as utterly and as finally as any chambermaid or
driver of a truck.
There was a moment of silence. Mooney stared without belief at the snow
sifting down from the bushes that the man had hid in.
Harse looked opaquely at Mooney. "It seems," he said, "that in these
slums are many. Dangers?"
* * * * *
Mooney was very quiet on the way back to the hotel. Harse, for once,
was not gazing into his viewer. He sat erect and silent beside Mooney,
glancing at him from time to time. Mooney did not relish the attention.
The situation had deteriorated.
It deteriorated even more when they entered the lobby of the hotel. The
desk clerk called to Mooney.
Mooney hesitated, then said to Harse: "You go ahead. I'll be up in a
minute. And listen--don't forget about my knock."
Harse inclined his head and strode into the elevator. Mooney sighed.
"There's a gentleman to see you, Mr. Mooney," the desk clerk said
civilly.