We were close enough for any of the four to have reached out and touched me. One of them I could shoot before I was smothered—one out of four. That meant that each of them had only one chance out of four of being the victim—low enough odds for any but the most cowardly of men.
I grinned what was supposed to be a confident grin—because I was up against it hard—and reached for the telephone: I had to do something! Then I cursed myself! I had merely changed the signal for the onslaught. It would come now when I picked up the receiver.
But I couldn’t back down again—that, too, would be a signal—I had to go through with it.
The perspiration trickled across my temples from under my hat as I drew the phone closer with my left hand.
The street door opened! An exclamation of surprise came from behind me.
I spoke rapidly, without taking my eyes from the four men in front of me.
“Quick! The phone! The police!”
With the arrival of this unknown person—one of Newhouse’s customers, probably—I figured I had the edge again. Even if he took no active part beyond calling the police in, the enemy would have to split to take care of him—and that would give me a chance to pot at least two of them before I was knocked over. Two out of four—each of them had an even chance of being dropped—which is enough to give even a nervy man cause for thinking a bit before he jumps.
“Hurry!” I urged the newcomer.