iant sheet-iron box which rumbled,
stared with his mouth open and blood draining from his cheeks. Brink,
alone, looked--quite impossibly--amused and satisfied.

"Get outside!" snarled a voice as Fitzgerald's revolver came out ready
for action. "This joint is finished!"

The companion of the snarling man rubbed suddenly at his eye. He rubbed
again, as if it twitched violently. But it was, after all, only a
twitching eyelid. He reached negligently down and picked up a wooden
box. By its markings, it was a dozen-bottle box of spot-remover--the
stuff used to get out spots the standard cleaning fluid in the
dry-cleaning machine did not remove.

The man heaved the box, with the hand with which he had rubbed his
twitching eye. The other man raised a hand--the one not holding a
revolver--to rub at his own eye, which also seemed to twitch agitatedly.

Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald had his revolver out. He drew in his
breath for a stentorian command for them to drop their weapons. But he
didn't have time to shout. The hurtling small box of spot-remover struck
the large sheet-iron case from which loud rumblings came. It was a
dryer; a device for spinning clothes which were wet with liquid from the
dry-cleaning washer. A perforated drum revolved at high speed within it.
The box of spot-remover hit the door. The door dented in, hit the
high-speed drum inside, and flew frantically out again, free from its
hinges and turning end-for-end as it flew. It slammed into the thrower's
companion, spraining three fingers as it knocked his revolver to the
floor. The weapon slid merrily away to the outer office between
Detective Fitzgerald's feet.

But this was not all. The dryer-door, having disposed of one threatening
revolver, slammed violently against the wall. The wall was merely a thin
partition, neatly paneled on the office side, but with shelves
containing cleaning-and-dyeing supplies on the other. The impact shook
the partition. Dust fell from the shelves and supplies. The hood who
hadn't lost his gun sneezed so violently that his hat came off. He bent
nearly double, and in the act he jarred the partition again.

Things fell from it. Many things. A two-gallon jar of extra-special
detergent, used only for laces, conked him and smashed on the floor
before him. It added to the stream of fluid already flowing with
singular directness for the open, double, back-door of the workroom. The
hood staggered, sneezed again, and convulsively p