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Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald had his revolver out. He drew in his breath for a stentorian command for them to drop their weapons. But he didn't have time to shout. The hurtling small box of spot-remover struck the large sheet-iron case from which loud rumblings came. It was a dryer; a device for spinning clothes which were wet with liquid from the dry-cleaning washer.
By its markings, it was a dozen-bottle box of spot-remover the stuff used to get out spots the standard cleaning fluid in the dry-cleaning machine did not remove. The man heaved the box, with the hand with which he had rubbed his twitching eye. The other man raised a hand the one not holding a revolver to rub at his own eye, which also seemed to twitch agitatedly.
A perforated drum revolved at high speed within it. The box of spot-remover hit the door. The door dented in, hit the high-speed drum inside, and flew frantically out again, free from its hinges and turning end-for-end as it flew. It slammed into the thrower's companion, spraining three fingers as it knocked his revolver to the floor.
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