When the Hardys returned to Earl's, the audience was still waiting for Olivia to begin her second set. Mr. Charles was seated at the table by himself. The man in the black trench coat and his companion were no longer at their table.
"Where's Molly?" asked Joe.
"She said she had to attend to another story."
"What happened to the men at the other table? And who are they?" asked Frank.
"I talked to the waiter. He said they had slight German accents. I suspect they might be agents of the Abwehr. Our German spies, in other words. I'm pretty sure they're waiting outside to follow Olivia. That won't help them because I'm making sure Miss Simmons is going home right after her performance and getting her beauty sleep. You boys might think about retiring for the night as well. It's well past your regular bedtime."
"I'll go when I'm ready to go," muttered Joe.
"Oh, I was only kidding. Don't be so sensitive."
"You don't think the German spies will cause trouble, do you?" asked Frank.
"Good spies spend years establishing their cover. They're supposed to blend in inconspicuously with the rest of the crowd. They're not going to blow it by causing a public disturbance or pulling out guns. I wouldn't worry about them."
"You know, you really should watch how much you drink."
Charles looked down at the bright green of his grasshopper. "Don't worry boys, I'm working on dessert right now."
After some time spent watching Charles drink, Frank observed, "The band seems to be taking a long time to get back on stage."
There were two loud cracks. A woman screamed. The Hardys looked around them but the sounds had not come from the room. Joe rushed into the entrance passageway. Joe was quick enough to see a man turn and flee through the club's entrance. Two men came down a staircase brandishing guns.
On the floor was Harris. The left side of his jacket had a dark, growing stain. His eyes were wide open, as if he were more shocked than hurt. "I'm all right," he hissed. He rapped the knuckles of his right hand against his chest, producing a muffled clacking. Joe assumed it was a bullet-proof vest. "He caught me above my vest. Nothing important hit." He groaned. "Damn. I was hoping I wouldn't get shot again."
One of the men who had come down the stairs, a tall, athletically-built man, bounded through the door in pursuit of the assailant. There was the muffled sound of another gunshot, outside on the street. He returned after a few seconds, shaking his head.
The other man who had come down the stairs barked, "Call an ambulance, somebody! Are you going to let this man bleed to death on my floor?" His order was promptly obeyed. He was a stout, older man with flecks of gray in his hair. On his lapel he wore a pink carnation. "Who do these people think they are? Coming to Harlem and shooting my place up! That kind of thing belongs in grade B gangster movies!"
Charles and Frank stood over Harris. Charles unbuttoned his jacket and his vest. It appeared the bullet had struck him under the collarbone.
"What happened, Montgomery?" Charles asked gently.
"These two gun punks came in. I told them they had to leave their guns with me. I said they weren't going to disturb any of the other patrons. They said they didn't carry any guns." Harris paused and breathed hard. "I went to pat one of them down. He said, 'Get your paws off me you goddamned monkey.'
"Then Toots comes in and one guy grabs him by the collar and starts shouting at him to leave the white woman alone. I got mad and told him to let go of Toots and get the hell out or I would toss them out." Harris paused again.
"Well, he pulled out a gun. I jumped behind the desk. There's a Colt .45 in the drawer. He fired two shots. One hit the desk. I think Walter and J.D. came down the stairs when they heard the shots. That scared them off." Harris grimaced with the effort of talking through his pain.
"Easy now," said Charles. "We appreciate any help you can give us."
Most of the patrons were now retrieving their coats from the still-frightened coat check girl. They weren't going to take a chance on more violence that night.
"Where's that ambulance?" Charles demanded.
"They always take their time getting here," one of the waitresses muttered.
Eventually an ambulance arrived. "Let's get Montgomery to the hospital," said Charles. "We can talk to him in the morning if he's feeling up to it."
Charles turned to the tall black man now standing calmly by his boss. "Walter, did you get a good look at them?"
"Wait a minute," said Joe, "whose investigation is this, anyway, yours or ours?"
Frank gave a deep sigh. "Joe, we shouldn't be so arrogant that we turn down help when it's offered."
Joe paused. Then he said, "Yeah, you're right."
They turned to Walter. He shrugged impassively. "There wasn't anything special about them. Just punks with new coats and hats on them. They took a shot at me before they ran around the corner. They took off in a big black sedan, maybe a Buick."
Frank asked, "Did you see the other men in the car?"
"There was an older guy in the back seat. He was mostly bald, with white hair."
"After this I need a drink," Charles declared. "You two look like you could use a drink yourselves," said Charles looking at them attentively.
"I guess we're not used to this sort of violence living in Bayport," Frank said. "We don't often see gunfire and blood on the floor."
"It's terrible how casual you get about it after a while. These are violent times we live in, boys."
When the Hardys returned to their hotel the lobby was deserted except for one man sitting on a davenport. He was the young man who had apparently been tailing them earlier in the evening.
Joe walked up to him. "Oh, come on! Don't you know when to call it quits? It's not as if you're any good at this game. We've been gone all evening and you're still sitting here doing crossword puzzles!"
The young man scowled. "I've had as much as I'm going to take from you. Maybe I didn't see where you've been, but maybe you'll tell my friend here." He unbuttoned the top button of his overcoat. Joe knew he intended to reach for his gun.
Frank launched himself at the gunman's legs. The man crumpled with a loud grunt. Joe fell on his chest and grabbed his arms. Frank took hold of his right arm and pulled it back so he couldn't reach for his gun. Joe wrestled with the left arm and pinned it down. The gunman's pale face flushed with helpless fury. Joe quickly reached into his jacket and plucked out a Luger pistol. "You can get this back when you learn how to behave properly in a nice hotel like this."
Entering the lobby was an older couple, dressed for a formal evening out.
Frank and Joe sprang to their feet. Joe casually tucked the gun into his belt. The gunman got up and walked away without saying a word.
"Did you enjoy your evening out?" Frank inquired, making polite conversation. He had overheard them earlier in the day. "A musical?"
"Yes indeed," replied the elderly lady, glittering from her jeweled tiara and the many-stranded pearl necklace on her neck. "We were lucky to get tickets for 'I'd Rather be Right'. Mr. George M. Cohan was fabulous!" Frank reflected sadly that only in a Broadway musical would President Roosevelt be able to dance.
The elderly man seemed about to say something. He stared at Joe's jacket where it covered the gun in his belt. Then he changed his mind and backed away, looking a little perturbed. The Hardys smiled pleasantly. "Good-night," they said.