eyes, he put a hand under his coat, brought out a black automatic pistol, and fired at me.
But he was too shaky for either speed or accuracy. I had time to toss a glass at him. The glass hit his shoulder. His bullet went somewhere overhead.
I jumped before he got the next one out—jumped at him—was close enough to knock the gun down. The second slug went into the floor.
I socked his jaw. He fell away from me and lay where he fell.
I turned around.
Dinah Brand was getting ready to bat me over the head with the seltzer bottle, a heavy glass siphon that would have made pulp of my skull.
"Don't," I yelped.
"You didn't have to bust him like that," she snarled.
"Well, it's done. You'd better get him straightened out."
She put down the siphon and I helped her carry him up to his bedroom. When he began moving his eyes, I left her to finish the work and went down to the dining room again. She joined me there fifteen minutes later.
"He's all right," she said. "But you could have handled him without that."
"Yeah, but I did that for him. Know why he took the shot at me?"
"So I'd have nobody to sell Max out to?"
"No. Because I'd seen you maul him around."
