He swung the revolver then, taking the chance that his shot had gone home, and aimed it at Jake, who was running directly toward him. The two fired in the same instant and each shot was effective. Jake staggered, a bullet in his chest just below the heart, and slowly dropped to the pavement.
But the gunman’s shot also found its mark, striking Hardy in the right temple and glancing off without actually penetrating the skull itself. The shock was enough to drop him, and Hardy’s gun fell from his hand as he went down. He was unconscious for several seconds.
Vince Dunne never was quite sure what had happened.
He’d been at the door waiting when the sedan swung around and stopped in front of the place. Jake was in the driver’s seat and Jake had waved to him as he’d cut the lights.
Vince had to fumble to find the catch on the jewelry store’s door and it had taken a second or two and then he had the door open and was starting out when he looked up and saw that Jake was frantically waving him back. It was only then that he spotted the squad car.
It wasn’t that he panicked. It was only that he realized if he went back inside he’d be cooked. Wouldn’t have a chance. He had to get to the car, cops or no cops. Holding the bag which held the jewels tight and close to his chest, he started across the wide sidewalk to reach the sedan. He was climbing into the back when the fireworks started.
The minute Vince looked up and saw Jake slipping to the sidewalk and heard the staccato rattle of the gunfire, he went into action. He reached for his own gun as he climbed over to the front seat and slipped under the wheel. It wasn’t until he shoved his foot down on the pedal and rammed the car into gear that he knew the engine was dead. He never did realize that the first slug from Hardy’s gun had smashed into the distributor, shattering it into a thousand parts. All he knew was that when he pushed the starter button, nothing happened.
Frantically he leaped to the street, still clutching the bag and with his own .38 held tight in his other hand.
He hesitated only long enough to fire twice, aiming directly at the prone body of Patrolman Hardy. The body jerked as the bullets smashed into it. Then Vince looked up.
That’s when he saw the Chevvie convertible drawn up opposite the sedan, a man behind the wheel with his eyes staring and his mouth wide open.
Probationary Patrolman Hardy was unconscious for less than a full minute and once he came to, it took several seconds to orient himself. His outstretched hand found the gun lying next to him on the pavement. He was dying, even then, but of this he wasn’t aware.
He still had time to fire the two remaining shots from his service revolver. He couldn’t be sure about it at all, later on when he was making his deathbed statement to the inspector in the emergency ward at the hospital, but he felt pretty positive that at least nine of the shots had gotten the third gunman who was escaping in the second getaway car. He was also pretty sure the second shot had hit the car.
The shattered windshield glass which they found on the road afterward would seem to bear him out on this.
One thing he was sure about. The second car had been a late model Chevvie, a two-tone convertible, black and yellow, and the license plate was a New York issue. The last number on the plate was a “3.”
It was the sound of the gunfire which brought Gerald Hanna to. He had no idea at all of what was happening, but instinctively pulled to a stop, his eyes wide with shocked surprise and horror as he saw the bodies lying in the street in front of him. He watched as Vince Dunne pumped two shots into the body of the already fallen patrolman.
A moment later the man in the goggles and the cap and black leather jacket jerked open the door of his car and climbed in beside him. Gerald Hanna didn’t have to be told what was being shoved into his ribs.
“Get going! Fast!”
He wasn’t more than normally quick-witted and he didn’t have a great deal of imagination, but for once in his life he didn’t need a lot.
Gerald rammed his foot down on the accelerator and the Chevvie shot forward. As it did, there was a burst of gunfire and the windshield in front of his face cracked and splintered.
Gerald Hanna’s life had ceased being dull.
The man’s voice was a mumbled whisper when he spoke. The pressure of the gun in his side had lessened, but Gerald knew it was still there. He half turned his head.
“Take the next right.”
He slowed the car, surprised that no one was following him. He made the turn, just north of Roslyn.
It was a little used road and Gerald wasn’t familiar with it. They passed a few scattered houses and then there was nothing.
Gerald was about to speak, when he heard the man at his side groan and then a moment later there was no longer any pressure at all from the gun and he heard the thud as it fell to the floor.
He stole a quick glance at his companion as they passed under one of the widely separated street lights. The man’s cap had fallen off and the goggles had dropped down on his thin, white face and his eyes were closed. He was slumped low in the seat.
Gerald took a chance and made a right turn at the next intersection. His passenger said nothing. Five minutes later he pulled to a stop in a lonely place in the road.
The map light illuminated the interior of the car as he reached quickly for the fallen gun. A moment later he knew that he wouldn’t need it.
The man was dead.
It wasn’t, however, the body at his side which held Gerald Hanna in frozen fascination. It was the half-opened bag which lay on the floor of the car. Cascading out of it and lying at his feet was a glittering mass of diamonds and rubies and emeralds. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings and one or two watches.
CHAPTER TWO
Sue Dunne clicked off the television set at eleven-fifteen, as soon as the late news was over. She was tired and decided to go to bed, although it was actually very early for her. Friday nights were always like this; the one night of the week when she didn’t work and had free time, but the one night when she really enjoyed getting to bed early.
That was the trouble with the job at the cafeteria. Or at least, one of the troubles. There were others, of course. Somehow or other, during the past year while she had worked as a night cashier in the place, her whole life had seemed all topsy-turvy. She still couldn’t get used to sleeping during the day and working at night; six nights a week, from six in the evening until three in the morning.
Not that it was hard work. Just tedious. Standing there at the cash register and going through the same inane motions hour after hour, night after night. It was a dull, uninteresting job, but it was a job and the pay wasn’t bad.
It wasn’t the pay, however, which kept her interested. It was the part about having the afternoons free. Free at least to allow her to go on with her studies. Sue was bound and determined to become a singer and she had few illusions about her potential career. She knew it would take a lot of studying and a lot of practice, along with a certain number of breaks. Having those afternoons free gave her the time for studying and practice. There was no one around in the afternoons to complain about her singing and for this she was grateful.
There were, of course, other ways to pursue her career. It had not taken a girl as good looking as Sue Dunne long to find out these ways. There were the offers of night-club work and there were the other offers. Offers which had been made to her by various men who would have been only too glad to have helped further her career.
Once or twice, coming home in the early morning dead tired from standing on her feet for hours, discouraged with the little money she was making and the high cost of her music lessons, she had been almost tempted to take up one of those offers. But it had only been a passing thought. Quickly she had smiled, wryly, and dismissed such thoughts from her mind. She’d do it the hard way, no matter how long it took. At least she had plenty of time. At nineteen, you always have plenty of time.