“ Mr. Handerson went out a minute or two ago,” the night clerk told us. “He seemed to be in a hurry.”
“Know where he keeps his car?”
“In the hotel garage around the corner.”
We were within two pavements of the garage, when Handerson’s automobile shot out and turned up the street.
“Oh, Mr. Handerson!” I cried, trying to keep my voice level and smooth.
He stepped on the gas and streaked away from us.
“Want him?” McClump asked; and, at my nod, stopped a passing roadster by the simple expedient of stepping in front of it.
We climbed aboard, McClump flashed his star at the bewildered driver, and pointed out Handerson’s dwindling taillight. After he had persuaded himself that he wasn’t being boarded by a couple of bandits, the commandeered driver did his best, and we picked up Handerson’s taillight after two or three turnings, and closed in on him—though his machine was going at a good clip.
By the time we reached the outskirts of the city, we had crawled up to within safe shooting distance, and I sent a bullet over the fleeing man’s head. Thus encouraged, he managed to get a little more speed out of his car; but we were definitely overhauling him now.
Just at the wrong minute Handerson decided to look over his shoulder at us—an unevenness in the road twisted his wheels—his machine swayed—skidded—went over on its side. Almost immediately, from the heart of the tangle, came a flash and a bullet moaned past my ear. Another. And then, while I was still hunting for something to shoot at in the pile of junk we were drawing down upon, McClump’s ancient and battered revolver roared in my other ear.