"It's the gun-moll," remarked Kennedy. "She's getting Brodie off
his guard. This must be the root of that grapevine system, as they
call it."
Suddenly from the shadow of the next house a stealthy figure
sprang out on Brodie. It was our dip, a dip no longer but a
regular stick-up man, with a gun jammed into the face of his
victim and a broad hand over his mouth. Skilfully the woman went
through Brodie's pockets, her nimble fingers missing not a thing.
"Now--beat it," we heard the dip whisper hoarsely, "and if you
raise a holler, we'll get you right, next time."
Brodie fled as fast as his weakened nerves would permit his shaky
limbs to move. As he disappeared, the dip sent something dark
hurtling over the roof of the house across the street and hurried
toward us.
"What was that?" I asked.
"I think it was the pistol on the end of a stout cord. That is a
favourite trick of the gunmen after a job. It destroys at least a
part of the evidence. You can't throw a gun very far alone, you
know. But with it at the end of a string you can lift it up over
the roof of a tenement.
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