A man went into the
Vesper Club, and I saw the negro at the door eye the oncoming van
suspiciously. The door banged shut.
The next thing I knew, Kennedy had ripped off his disguise, had
flung himself up behind the van, and had swung the doors open. A
dozen men with ages and sledge-hammers swarmed out and up the
steps of the club.
"Call the reserves, O'Connor," cried Kennedy. "Watch the roof and
the back yard."
The driver of the van hastened to send in the call.
The sharp raps of the hammers and the axes sounded on the thick
brass-bound oak of the outside door in quick succession. There
was a scurry of feet inside, and we could hear a grating noise
and a terrific jar as the inner, steel door shut.
"A raid! A raid on the Vesper Club!" shouted a belated passer-by.
The crowd swarmed around from Broadway, as if it were noon
instead of midnight.
Banging and ripping and tearing, the outer door was slowly
forced. As it crashed in, the quick gongs of several police
patrols sounded. The reserves had been called out at the proper
moment, too late for them to "tip off" the club that there was
going to be a raid, as frequently occurs.
Disregarding the melee behind me, I leaped through the wreckage
with the other raiders. The steel door barred all further
progress with its cold blue impassibility.
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