BRIETMarketplace

Tim Ryan was walking slowly past Cellini’s nightclub in Soho when the tinkle of glass and the crash of opening doors made him pause. In the darkish deserted street Ryan’s cigarette stub glowed. He took it from his mouth and shielded it with his cupped hand. Then he stepped back into a convenient doorway. From a low basement door of the nightclub a man dashed into the street like a wild animal. As he passed under an adjacent lamp standard Ryan saw his coat was half-ripped from his back and that blood streamed from a wound in his head. He had scarcely run five yards when another man lurched from the nightclub door. The pursuer raised a revolver and fired point-blank at the running man...