“The police,” Nancy Regan whispered, and we hustled up our newfound steps to the third floor.
More darkness, just like that we’d left. We stood still at the top of the stairs. We didn’t seem to have any company.
“The roof,” I said. “We’ll risk matches.”
Back in a corner our feeble match-light found us a ladder nailed to the wall, leading to a trap in the ceiling. As little later as possible we were on Larrouy’s roof, the trap closed behind us.
“All silk so far,” said O’Leary, “and if Vance’s rats and the bulls will play a couple of seconds longer—bingavast.”
I led the way across the roofs. We dropped ten feet to the next building, climbed a bit to the next, and found on the other side of it a fire-escape that ran down to a narrow court with an opening into the back street.
“This ought to do it,” I said, and went down.
The girl came behind me, and then Red. The court into which we dropped was empty—a narrow cement passage between buildings. The bottom of the fire-escape creaked as it hinged down under my weight, but the noise didn’t stir anything. It was dark in the court, but not black.
“When we hit the street, we split,” O’Leary told me, without a word of gratitude for my help—the help he didn’t seem to know he had needed. “You roll your hoop, we’ll roll ours.”
“Uh-huh,” I agreed, chasing my brains around in my skull. “I’ll scout the alley first.”
Carefully I picked my way down to the end of the court and risked the top of my hatless head to peep into the back street. It was quiet, but up