“Don’t shoot,” I muttered in his ear.
Flora’s guns thundered together. But she was tumbling. Andy had crashed into her. Had thrown himself at her legs as a man would throw a boulder.
When Flora tumbled, Tom-Tom Carey stopped waiting.
His first bullet was sent so close past her that it clipped her curled yellow hair. But it went past—caught Papadopoulos just as he went through the door. The bullet took him low in the back—smeared him out on the floor.
Carey fired again—again—again—into the prone body.
“It’s no use,” I growled. “You can’t make him any deader.”
He chuckled and lowered his guns.
“Four into a hundred and six.” All his ill-humor, his grimness was gone. “That’s twenty-six thousand, five hundred dollars each of those slugs was worth to me.”
Andy and Mickey had wrestled Flora into submission and were hauling her up off the floor.
I looked from them back to the swarthy man, muttering, “It’s not all over yet.”
“No?” He seemed surprised. “What next?”
“Stay awake and let your conscience guide you,” I replied, and turned to the Counihan youngster. “Come along Jack.”
I led the way out through the window and across the porch, where I leaned against the railing. Jack followed and stood in front of me, his gun