"Oh, a crackpot!"
He came toward me, shaking off Uncle Peter's restraining hand. I took a
step backward, thankful he was coming in wide open because I had seen
few tougher-looking characters in my lifetime.
I set myself and sent a short knockout punch against his chin. It was a
good punch. Everything was in it. It sounded like a sledge hammer
hitting a barn door.
The barkeep shook his head and came on in. I stepped back and slugged
him again. No result.
Then Joy slipped into the narrow space between us. She was smiling and,
with her upturned waiting lips, she was temptation personified. The
barkeep dropped his hands, paralyzed by her intoxicating nearness.
She said, "Hello, Iron Head. How about you and I taking a little
vacation together somewhere."
He grinned and reached for her. This, it developed, was a mistake,
because Joy reached for him at the same time. She lifted his
two-hundred-odd pounds as though he were a baby and he went flying
across the room like a projectile. He hit a radiator head-on and lay
still.
Again I was stupefied. It seemed I knew nothing at all about this girl
I'd married. She smiled at me and said, "Don't be alarmed, angel.
There's an explanation. You see, my mother gave me money for piano
lessons and I invested most of it in a course of ju-jitsu. I thought an
occasion like this might arise sometime. Do you want to take McCaffery,
or shall I do it? I doubt if he'll come to the station peaceably."
But Hands McCaffery was not to be caught flatfooted. Without his machine
gun he was just an ordinary little man who didn't want to go with us. He
took one look at the prone barkeep, muttered, "Geez!" and headed for the
back door.
"Get him," Joy yelled. "Maybe we can make a deal with the cops to fry
Hands in place of Uncle Peter!"
I started after Hands and as I went through the back door I heard Uncle
Peter protesting feebly. "I say now. This is all uncalled-for--"
"Don't let him get away!" Joy called. "He's got the serum!"
That cleared things up somewhat and made me even more resolute.
Evidently we had interrupted Uncle Peter and Hands in the process of
doing away with all the latter's enemies. With that bottle in his
possession, he was a menace to the entire population of the city. A man
of his type would certainly have far more enemies than friends.
Outside in the dark alley, I was guided only by footsteps. The sound of
Hands' retreat told me he was moving up the smelly passageway toward
Division Street. I went after him.
I am no mean sprinter, having won laurels in college for my fleetness in
the two-twenty and the four-forty, and I had no trouble in overtaking
the little assassin. We were fast approaching the alley entrance where I
would have had the aid of street lights and could have swiftly collared
McCaffery whose heavy breathing I could now hear--when disaster struck
in the form of a painful obstacle. It was heavy and it caught me just
below the knees.
I tripped and fell headlong, plowing along a couple of yards of slippery
brick pavement on my face. I got groggily to my feet and shook my head
to clear my brain. From the deposits of old eggs, rejected tomatoes and
other such refuse in my face and ears, I gathered that I had tripped
over a garbage can.
This delayed me for some moments. When I finally staggered out into
Division Street, a strange sight met my eyes. Hands McCaffery had been
apprehended. It seemed that the police had orders to pick him up because
two uniformed patrolmen had him backed against the wall and were
approaching him with caution. They had him covered and were taking no
chances of his pulling a belly gun on them.
But he did not draw a gun. Instead, while I stared wide-eyed, he raised
Uncle Peter's vial to his lips and drank the contents.
I will not bore you with details of his going _pop_. If you have read
this letter carefully, the details are not necessary.
I turned and retraced my steps, realizing Hands McCaffery had been
vicious and defiant to the last. Rather than submit to arrest, he had
taken the wild animal's way out.
I arrived back in Joe's Tavern to find the barkeep had been revived and
bore none of us any ill-will. This no doubt because of Joy's persuasive
abilities. Cora was sulking in a booth and Uncle Peter was patching the
gash on the barkeep's head.
* * * * *
I entered with a heavy heart, realizing, as a good citizen, I must turn
my own uncle over to the police. But there was an interlude before I
would be forced into this unpleasant task. This interlude was furnished
by Bag Ears. After I acquainted the group with the news of how Hands had
taken the easy way out, Bag Ears' face took on a rapt, silent look of
happiness. He was staring at Joy. He said, "Pretty--very pretty!"