Hardly had the brothers hopped out of Mr. Charles' car than they heard a shout, "It's the cops!" The Hardys instinctively dashed around the corner, towards the sound. They saw Ahlberg standing on the sidewalk close to his car, not showing any signs of taking flight. His young henchman was running across the middle of the street, dodging traffic. The Hardys quickly spotted two police officers, one ahead of them on the west side of Park Avenue, the other kitty-corner to the southeast. The two police cars were still in the traffic. Realizing that they had been spotted, the police poured out of their vehicles to pursue on foot. The young gunman made it across to the east sidewalk, ignoring the cacophony of honking horns. He pulled out his gun from the inside of his coat, whirled and fired recklessly toward the cluster of police crossing the intersection. Bystanders screamed.
Without a word, Joe ran across the stream of traffic in pursuit. Thankfully the cars had almost come to a standstill as the drivers watched in disbelief. The shots forced the police to advance more cautiously. They flattened themselves against the buildings, seeking whatever protection the architectural structure could provide.
The gunman turned to run and bumped into a man carrying shopping bags. He was shoved ruthlessly aside and crashed, arms flailing, into the sidewalk display of a florist's. Rows of buckets holding flower bouquets toppled from the wooden stands, splashing and spilling onto the sidewalk.
The gunman continued to flee northward, zigzagging a path through the panic-stricken shoppers who, too close to take cover, could only step aside. A woman plucked up her toddler and held its face against her fur coat. A white-haired couple clung to each other. Across the street Lt. Korman and his men were running a parallel course. The gunman could see that the police would reach the end of the block before he would and cut him off. He ran with both arms extended, training the gun on his pursuers. The police had to run bent forward to gain protection from the line of parked cars.
Seemingly oblivious to danger, Joe sprinted to close the distance between himself and the gunman. Joe could see the ashen face of the shooter, staring wide-eyed with a mixture of fear and shock that Joe was so close. The gunman fired another shot. But Joe had watched him raise his arm and anticipated the gunfire. He lunged for a doorway and heard the bullet ricochet off the stone wall a couple of feet from him. He barely felt any pain from his knee landing on the stone step. Joe may have seemed foolhardy but he was constantly calculating the places where he could find cover.
Frank had no choice but to follow his brother but he was some thirty yards further back. He could only shake his head in admiration at his brother's single-minded intensity. Just behind him were the police. They had their revolvers out but could not chance a shot on such crowded streets.
The fleeing man turned to his right, eastward, when he reached the corner. When Joe got there he halted. The flat brick wall of the corner building provided no shield from bullets. He would have to let the figure of the gunman recede for a few seconds before he resumed the pursuit, for safety's sake. This didn't discourage Joe because it was clear to him where his quarry was going. At the end of the block was a stairway down to a station on the Lexington Avenue subway line. It occurred to Joe that the man he was pursuing may have fired the shots at Montgomery Harris or in the Yorkville Theater. That would explain his desperation to avoid capture.
Joe thought the pursued man had put his gun away and was intent on escaping not shooting, so it was safe to close the gap. Joe was aware that if he ran among the pedestrians he might draw fire, endangering their lives as well. Some were watching fearfully, others looked around, bewildered by the shots and screams, still others were unaware of any danger. Joe ran close to the curb, taking advantage of the trees planted in the sidewalk. He watched the gunman's back disappear down the stairs. Joe slid his back along the black metal railing on the right-hand side as he stepped down. At the bottom he peered around. There was no sign of the gunman. There were no running footsteps. Joe ventured forward. A passageway connected stairwells on either side of the street. Another passageway led in the direction of the trains. Joe could see no sign of the gunman but didn't hesitate to head toward the train platform.
Joe's eyes took some adjusting to the yellow light coming from the fixtures in the slightly curved ceiling. The light turned the shiny white ceramic tiles that covered both walls of the passage into ivory. A number of subway riders coming off a train passed Joe. A man and a woman walked arm in arm. She was wearing a cloche hat, a long brown coat with a fur collar, and bright green pumps. The couple seemed very relaxed, Joe thought. The gunman must have slowed to a walk and is trying to blend into the crowd, he concluded.
At the end of the passage was a chamber which featured two ticket vending booths, only one of which had an attendant now. Metal barriers kept the lines separate. Behind glass on the walls were maps of the subway system, notices on littering, and signs giving hours of operation. There was a row of newspaper vending boxes. Most passengers had nickels to put into the turnstiles so they didn't have to line up at the booth. A stream of passengers leaving the station passed on the left. Directly in front of Joe two men were waiting at the ticket booth. Stepping to one side, Joe looked but could not spot his quarry. Had the man already gone down to the train platform? That wouldn't have been possible, Joe reasoned, unless he had been running.
"Hey, stop right there!" Joe shouted. The man hadn't gone through the turnstiles -- he had joined the crowd exiting the station and was trying to slip past him!
Knowing he had been spotted, the gunman could have run. Instead he raised his gun and aimed it at the younger Hardy. Joe was startled but he hit the floor and rolled between the newspaper boxes. Joe thought he saw a glimpse of the gunman's face showing his exasperation and fury. Was that just his imagination, Joe wondered. Joe rested his sweaty forehead against the cold metal of the box. What if the gunman calmly walked over to him and shot him point blank? Only the policemen behind them had kept the gunman propelled forward but what if he put this out of his mind, determined to rid himself of his persistent pursuer? Joe's heart felt like it had dropped into a cold, black lake. The seconds dragged by. Then his anxiety got the better of him. He peered from behind the metal box, his face against the smooth concrete floor. The gunman was struggling with his gun. The gun had jammed! The man cursed and tried squeezing the trigger a couple of times more. Then he flung the useless firearm aside and began running back down the tunnel the way he and Joe had come. Joe understood that without his weapon he could not possibly evade capture inside the station – some of the crowd would surely restrain him until the police arrived. Joe scrambled to his feet sensing that his chase would soon be over.
At the junction of the two underground passageways the young gunman spun around to look at Joe rushing towards him. If there had been a furious expression on his face earlier it was gone, as if he had cast it aside along with his gun. He regarded his blond pursuer calmly. He slipped his right hand inside his coat. Joe stopped in his tracks. Did he have another gun? A knife, perhaps? At that moment two bullets spiraled through the air of the tunnel that connected the two sides of the street and tore through the gunman's body. His hat toppled off his head and floated to the ground.
Joe imagined hearing his own voice scream, "Don't shoot!", knowing that it would have been futile. As Joe stood over the shot man he watched his eyes roll upwards. The man's mouth popped open slightly and he made an exhaling sound like a soft grunt. Then the eyes were locked in a frozen unconscious stare. The gunman was not much older than he was.
Joe was aware of the clatter of the policemen's shoes reverberating in the tunnel. They arrived to stand over the body which lay motionless at the center of a spreading pool of blood. Without thinking why he did it, Joe shifted the hat over so that it wouldn't be ruined by the blood. Someone opened the dead man's coat before the blood could dry and glue his clothes in place. "What was he reaching for anyway?" someone asked angrily. There was only an empty holster on a shoulder strap. "Maybe he was going for his hankie to blow his nose," Joe heard someone say.
Joe was going to mention that the dead man had thrown his gun away because it jammed but the words coagulated in his throat and he said nothing audible. Frank Hardy had arrived with the police and Joe was aware that his brother was looking at him with concern. Joe's mind flipped back to the charwoman in Earl's. He thought of all the sons who would add their blood to the stains on all the tired old wooden floors the world over.