The Last Drive by Rex Stout Page B

was upright. With a desperate effort the unknown got an arm loose and swung, but Rankin sprang forward to clinch before the blow could land. Breathing heavily, grappling fiercely together, they swayed back and forth over the pavement; and with the superhuman strength of fear in him, Gil was holding his own. Harry Adams stood on the sidewalk, starting forward and then halting again, as if unable to decide which man to help; and all the time calling frantically to Gil that it was “all right,” and to Rankin to let him go.
    They lurched back and forth across the sidewalk, struggling silently; then suddenly Rankin’s foot caught on the edge of the curb and he stumbled, loosening his hold. On the instant Gil jerked away, then hurled himself forward and bore the other to the ground, knocking the breath out of him; and then jumped to his feet and sprang for the car with a triumphant oath. Swiftly Rankin was back on his feet and after him, dragging him from his seat, though his head was dizzy and stunned from the impact of the pavement. Gil clung to the edge of the car; Rankin tugged at him, and when the hold was suddenly released they tumbled backwards together. Gil was up first; his eye caught something on the ground; a quick swoop, and he straightened and turned with the heavy iron wrench in his hand. “Now, damn you!” he screamed, and rushed forward.
    Rankin dodged swiftly, and got a glancing blow on the shoulder. Again the wrench was raised, but the detective leaped forward and caught the arm before it could come down. There was a sharp pain in his shoulder, but he grappled and held on, jerking at the wrench with one hand, and finally got it loose and sent it spinning through the air. Then he drew back and swung his clenched fist at the others’ jaw, unexpectedly and successfully. He felt his knuckles crunch on the flesh and bone, and the unknown went down like a log. Rankin sprang astride of him and sat on him; and then Harry Adams’s agitated voice came:
    â€œLet him go, Mr. Rankin—please let him go. He’s done nothing—that is, not what you think. You must let him go, sir.”
    The detective merely grunted, pinning down his captive’s arms.
    â€œYou must, Mr. Rankin—he meant no harm to you—”
    â€œOf course not,” panted the detective. “He just wanted to see how close he could come with that wrench without hitting me.”
    â€œYou were after him.”
    â€œAnd I got him.”
    â€œYou must let him go.”
    â€œDon’t be a damned idiot, Harry. Of course I won’t let him go.”
    The unknown stirred a little. The detective tightened his hold, resting for breath.
    â€œBut I say you must.” Young Adams moved so that he stood directly over the two men on the pavement, and spoke rapidly. “Listen, Mr. Rankin. It’s a question of my honor. Gil came down here to see me. It would be the same as if I’d betrayed him, when I’d promised to help him. You must let him go. It’s a matter of honor.”
    â€œYour honor is your own lookout, my boy. As for me, I’m going to have a good long talk with your pleasant-mannered friend and find out why he’s so free with his wrenches.”
    â€œMr. Rankin, let him go.”
    Silence. The detective shifted his hold a little and, leaning over, saw the shifty eyes open, and simultaneously felt a reawakening of the muscles of the man beneath him; and then he felt something else: two strong hands gripping him from above.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir—”
    â€œKeep off, Harry!”
    The detective sat harder. Gil’s body twisted feebly about. Young Adams seemed to hesitate an instant, then he stooped swiftly and encircled Rankin with his arms. The detective struggled, but in vain; he was still all but exhausted, and the strength of the young athlete was too much for him. Inexorably he was dragged from his captive and across the sidewalk; he tried to twist