Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

They could not overtake McArthur, but he glanced back, shaking his head. It was going to be close. His driver, Keady, probably wouldn’t have the motor warmed. Through Mountfort he flitted, his pursuers cursing and panting behind — then out into Oliver—

He caught his breath. The touring car was there, but it was empty. Mr. Keady had gone, attracted by the uproar of the raid.

The motor key was in the switch, however—

McArthur laughed.

Chapter L M’Arthur’s Third Race

Throwing himself into the driver’s seat, McArthur jammed the starter button. He switched on the bright lights, watching their rays grow brighter as he raced the motor.

In the mirror at his left he could see the corner. Two men turned it — then another, and another. They hesitated a second, and dashed toward the car.

The inventor pulled the choke lever away out and let in the clutch. The machine leaped forward. It gathered speed rapidly. Shouts and imprecations followed him. He turned to the left.

A half minute told him that he had shaken off pursuit. But he couldn’t go back to look for Keady. The gangsters knew his number now; and his return to the district would be a signal for missiles and bullets. Besides, he hadn’t time.

Through Fessenden Street to Ipswich, up Ipswich to Dover, down Dover to the avenue, he fled on, knifing his way toward the start of the turnpike and the South Shore.

It was incomprehensible to McArthur how the gangsters picked up the trail again. He was far out on Broad Street, traveling at high speed, when he noticed a pair of dancing lights in his mirror which were keeping the pace. They were more than keeping it; they were gaining. But even then, the inventor didn’t guess that the car belonged to his enemies, because it seemed impossible that it could.

As the machine, a big sedan, drew abreast, he saw them, all too plainly — Duke Andrews driving, another man in front, the tense forms of Castle and Kirke behind.

They had caught McArthur by surprise, and had all but crowded him to the curb. He plunged the accelerator. The touring car, much lighter than the other, responded with a dash which pulled him free.

A stream of foul curses told him unmistakably that the gangsters’ intention had been to force a halt or a collision. He was not in doubt as to their purpose. They had followed him with a single thought — revenge — and it could be obtained satisfactorily in only one way.

There was little traffic on Broad Street. McArthur pulled the throttle open, then pushed it back, abandoning it for the foot accelerator, and raced ahead. The bright lights in the mirror were close, losing ground slowly. He looked sharply for police officers who might stop the chase, but saw none. Ahead, however, at the end of Broad Street and the start of the South Shore Turnpike, burned the blue lamps of station eighteen.

Here was refuge, beyond question. He could enter the police station and remain under protection until the miscreants had left the neighborhood. But meanwhile, what of Mrs. Ward?

“Are you going to be yellow this time, McArthur, when the chief’s wife needs you?”

He flashed past the station and through the square, out over the road beyond. The big, sedan followed.

Through the early miles of the turnpike, within the limits of Brookford and Plainsfield, there was little change in the relative position of the cars. Both were flying in defiance of all regulations, at the risk of pursuit by police. Once, between the two cities, the gangsters fired four shots, and McArthur heard one bullet strike the body of his car.

Had it punctured the gasoline tank?

Outside West Plainsfield the rows of street lamps ended; the dark, winding, lonely highway began. The inventor sank lower in his seat, settling down to the struggle.

Once again the myriad objects of the night sprang to life before his headlights and flitted past like phantoms. A brisk wind, sharp and invigorating, swished through the curtain from the west and fanned his face. The whirl of the motor rose to a peculiar, tremulous note which told of power. The figures and tiny dots on the dashboard crept around, farther around, mark by mark.

The turnpike was bare, washed clean by the rains and swept dry by the wind. McArthur plunged around two long curves and down a steep hill, his motor trembling and singing. A danger sign stared out at him, with its warning of a railroad crossing. His car struck the tracks with a resounding bump and went bouncing on.

He blinked, and looked at the mirror. The dancing bright specks were smaller.

A cat paused in the road, its pale green eyes gleaming at him, then scurried for safety. Up a hill, around a third curve, down another sharp incline, he dashed along with his foot against the floor. He looked at the mirror again. Its face was dark.