Steve's sped-up brain. When he suddenly took Treft's death for granted, Steve
looked for The Harlequin and saw him behind the desk, the gun still smoking in
his hand. Odd, that gray wisp curling from the muzzle, for The Harlequin hadn't
fired since that second shot which seemed so long ago.
Only it wasn't long ago.
With a surge, Steve's wit returned. All these happenings that were
spreading themselves into the events of hours, shriveled suddenly into brief
seconds. And with that return of reason Steve felt the impulse that if he dealt
in seconds, he could pack them faster than the Harlequin had.
Driving straight for the desk, Steve expected to see The Harlequin behave
in the slow, labored fashion that had dominated those previous sensations.
Instead, The Harlequin whipped away from the desk with a speed that outdid
Steve's drive. The Harlequin's objective was an open window in the side wall of
the room, but he paused with his free hand on the sill and took quick aim across
the desk.
When The Harlequin aimed, he fired.
Two gun-stabs, close together. This time Steve heard them in terms of rapid
fire. With the reports came echoing clangs as Steve reeled back, wondering why
he wasn't dead, like Treft. There was a reason, and a good one.
Alumite was taking its first test and meeting requirements. Pettigrew's
bust, still clutched in Steve's arms, was the target of The Harlequin's
too-perfect aim. It stopped the bullets and it stopped The Harlequin too.
As Steve staggered from the impact, the man at the window paused to clap
his hand against the side of his tight-fitting costume. There, a bulge
discernible amid the patchwork, represented the papers that he had taken from
Treft's desk; letters, formula and all. But The Harlequin knew now that he was
missing something; that bust, wavering so lightly between Steve's numbed hands,
was certainly alumite and not the bronze it looked to be.
With savage smoothness, The Harlequin sprang toward the desk again, so
swift and lithe that he clearly intended to clear it in a leap. Urged by
self-preservation, Steve hurled his only weapon, the alumite bust that had
served him one good turn.
It served another.
Dodging the flying bust, The Harlequin fired wide. A moment later, Steve
was at the desk, shoving it at his murderous foe. The Harlequin fired another
shot off balance as he dropped back to the window and his eyes, tilted upward,
saw the bust still in the air. It was slow-motion in reality, a detail which
Steve had forgotten, the way that featherweight metal drifted, despite its bulk.
But there was nothing slow about The Harlequin's response.
With one hand he flung his gun full force at Steve, who dropped back with a
warding arm. No longer menaced by the desk, The Harlequin caught the bust with
his free arm, then used his gun hand to vault the window-sill with a leap that
cleared the azalea bed beyond. All in one lithe operation, the murderer was off
into the night, carrying the alumite bust as a bonus.
What Steve had was The Harlequin's gun. Snatching it up, he was turning
toward the window, when men came pounding through the door from the reception
room. Looking around, Steve saw the husky butler followed by the watchman who
bore the shotgun. Excitedly, Steve pointed to the window, but they didn't give
him time to explain.
They had seen Treft's body. They had heard shots and they were finding
