Bart Gould moved with swift, deadly precision. In a split second he was on his feet, looming over the fear-huddled figure of the would-be killer. He swung his arm, the hard edge of his left hand chopping with brutal force across the fat man's throat. He saw the head loll sidewise and down, like that of a rag doll that had lost part of its stuffing. He studied the man through narrowed eyes for a long moment, considering his next move. Then he took out his handkerchief, bent over and picked up the gun from the floor. It was a Luger, fitted with a silencer. That was the trouble with damned amateurs, they never learned until it was too late that a silencer was more of a liability than an asset.

1965.