Black Mask (Vol. 23, No. 4 — August 1940)

Too Touch by John Graham

The trouble with some guys is they don’t know the difference between tough and too tough — too smart and just smart enough.

The parcel-room clerk in South Station gave Vic Smail a nervous wink at 9:25 o’clock that morning. Then he reached for the travel-stained pigskin kit bag, high on the rack above.

Vic brushed toast crumbs from his lap, carefully put aside a half-empty container of coffee. He stood up, strolled toward the employees’ entrance, quietly pulled the door shut behind him and rounded briskly into the station corridor.

Out of the corner of his eye Vic saw the man who was claiming the kit bag. He was tall, about forty, deeply suntanned, wearing a pearl-gray polo coat, a gray plaid cap. Vic was sure he had never seen him before.

The man took the bag from the counter, counted out some change for the clerk and started toward the taxicab runway. Vic moved abreast of him, weaving through a late rush of commuters. Across the broad station floor he caught a glimpse of Ben Girsh, his friend and fellow operative, sauntering into the lunchroom. Vic smiled to himself, glanced back at his quarry. The man in the polo coat appeared to be in no hurry and Vic beat him to the platform doors by a dozen steps. He hesitated, saw the man was still coming and pushed on through.

The platform was deserted save for the starter, who lounged against a pillar rolling a cigarette. The only cab in sight was on the opposite side of the runway and driverless. The starter looked at Vic, wet the edge of the cigarette paper with his tongue and grinned. He said: “No good, mister. Don’t you read the papers?”

“What’s up?”

“Strike.”

“Again?”

The starter nodded. “The third tie-up in two months. Can’t say as I blame the boys.” He paused to light the cigarette. “They walked out at six o’clock this morning.”

Vic looked across the runway. “Whose hack is that?” he asked.

The starter shrugged. “Independent. Musta got scared off. He drifted in, messed around with what he said was engine trouble. Pretty soon he went inside.”

The man in the polo coat came toward them, a puzzled frown on his face. “Aren’t there any cabs?” he asked the starter.

Informed of the taxi strike he said: “Damn nuisance. I suppose I’ll have to walk. How far is the Hotel Everlyn?”

The starter calculated. “Clifton Avenue at Twenty-third... A good four miles.”

Vic Smail chimed in. “I’ve a car parked down the street a couple of blocks. If you’d like a lift...?”

The man’s face was so brown that his blue eyes seemed almost colorless as they studied Vic. He smiled bleakly, said: “I guess not. Thanks just the same.” He turned back to the starter. “Hasn’t that cab a driver?” he asked, pointing across the runway,

“He’s gone inside,” the starter said. “And it might not be safe...”

“Nothing is these days.” The man handed the starter a folded bill. “Will you see if you can find him? I’ll wait in the cab.”

Vic started hurrying along the platform toward the street and his own car. The man in the polo coat was crossing the runway. Vic glanced back and saw him turning the handle of the cab’s door.

An instant later there was an ear-blistering crash. Vic toppled, landed on hands and knees. The building rocked, the concrete runway cracked and buckled. The air was filled with choking fumes, flying bits of metal, broken glass. A woman’s scream echoed from the corridor of the station. Vic knelt, shaking his head to clear it.

When he turned he saw a twisted mass of wreckage, the glimmer of flame, a pall of smoke. There was no sign of the man in the polo coat.

Vic leaned forward on the edge of the desk, mopped his round red face, smoothed back still damp wisps of hair. “That’s all there is to it, boss,” he said. “He was there one minute — then boom!”

Les Stoddard, head of the Aetna Agency, sat looking out the office window, chin down, unspeaking. He was a little man, almost frail in appearance, with sloping shoulders, delicate hands. His face was solemn, deeply lined, somewhat melancholy. Among the things you first noticed about him were his eyes, deep-set, a smoldering brown, speculative yet kindly — and his hair, snow-white and very thick. He remained motionless, as if listening intently to the ticking of the office clock and Vic Smail’s labored breathing. After a while he shifted slightly and asked in a dull voice: “How about the kit bag?”

Vic shrugged. “He took it with him.”

Without changing expression, Stoddard said: “That’s one way of blowing fifty thousand bucks.”

“Fifty thou...!” Vic jerked back. “You mean he had it in the bag?”

“What did you think was in it? Old newspapers?”

“I didn’t know,” Vic confessed. “Nothing was said to me, except that I was to relieve Ben Girsh in the checkroom at nine o’clock and watch that hag.”

Stoddard’s eyes narrowed as he turned from the window to face Vic. “By the way, who was it told you to do that?”

“Cora told me,” Vic answered. “Why?”

“Cora Winters?”

“Naturally. I wouldn’t be taking orders from anyone else. She’s your own secretary, and when she phoned...”

“What time was that?” Stoddard cut in.

“About one o’clock. I was in bed at the apartment when she called. She said you told her to.”

“It’s damn funny,” Stoddard mused. “Do you happen to know where she is now?”

Vic looked puzzled. “No, I don’t know anything about her. Why?”

“She’s not here is all. Hasn’t shown today. And her home phone doesn’t answer.”

“Maybe she’s sick,” Vic suggested.

Les Stoddard looked back at the window. “I thought of that. Still, she ought to call in.”

“She might have stopped at a doc’s. Be in later.”

Stoddard nodded. “We’ll see. Now tell me anything else about the affair at the station that occurs to you.”

Ben Girsh came into the office while they were talking. Heavy-set, dark, and usually immaculate, Girsh looked mussed and puffy-eyed from his all-night vigil.

“Pick up anything?” Stoddard asked.

Girsh shook his head. “I didn’t have a basket.”

“How about the cops?”

“It was a job for the fire department. They needed a hose to clean up that mess.”

“I don’t get it,” Vic Smail said. “Particularly since he had all that dough in the bag. With robbery for a motive—”

Stoddard silenced him with a gesture. “There’s more to this than robbery.” He got to his feet, paced the office slowly. “I’m going to let you mugs in on it, although I admit I don’t want to and will probably regret it. I planned to manage this case alone. It needs special handling and care. No rough stuff will do. And knowing you two and your tactics...”

Vic, fidgeting, interjected: “Never mind the preaching, boss. What’s up?”

“It’s got to be kept dead quiet,” Stoddard warned. “Benton Meade, president of the Gray Stripe Cab Company, was snatched day before yesterday.”

He paused to let this information sink in, noting the astonishment on the faces of Vic Smail and Ben Girsh.

“Meade was on the way home from his office in a limousine,” Stoddard resumed. “Someone slugged the chauffeur at a traffic-light stop, disappeared with Meade and the car. The chauffeur came to in a ditch about eight miles out of town. He reported to no one but the family. They came straight to me.

“You probably can guess why we have to keep the hush on the whole business. Meade had a strike impending — it’s here today — the third in a row. Maybe the strikers had something to do with this job. On the other hand, maybe they didn’t. But it’s the wrong kind of news to get circulated at a time like this. That’s why it’s a case that has to be handled with kid gloves.

“The chauffeur says he didn’t see anyone. He got smacked down before he had a chance to turn his head. The limousine was abandoned that night down along the waterfront. The cops picked it up — but only as a stolen car. It’s back in the Meade garage. Naturally, the family’s in terrible shape. Meade’s wife and daughter are on the verge of collapse. But they’re dead game, and in full accord with my ideas for handling the case.

“Yesterday they got a note from the kidnapers, who demanded fifty grand cash, directed them to put the money in a bag and have the chauffeur check it at South Station. There was the usual stuff about no cops and no new bills. Then — and here’s the joker — the check for the bag was to be turned over by the family to someone from out of town — anyone they wanted to pick as long as he was a stranger here — who was to claim the bag, get a cab at the station and start for the Hotel Everlyn.”

Vic remarked: “Now I see why the guy didn’t want a lift.”

“You mean,” Ben Girsh demanded, “that you offered him one?”

“Sure. How was I to know...?”

“The note stated further,” Stoddard went on, “that the man in the cab would be stopped enroute to the hotel, relieved of the bag and allowed to go his way unmolested. And that was all.”

“Jeeze!” Vic exploded. “That’s enough!”

“You’d think so,” Stoddard agreed, “but apparently the kidnapers don’t. Now it’s murder in broad daylight, fifty grand blown up and Meade still missing.” He glanced at the office clock. “Come to think of it, so is Cora.”

“What’s this?” Girsh inquired.

“She must have exhausted herself waking up Vic on the telephone in the middle of the night,” Stoddard said. “Incidentally, Vic, I didn’t tell her to call you.”

“You didn’t!” Vic Smail sat up again, his eyes widening with surprise.

“Don’t be alarmed. Stranger things have happened — and may very well continue to happen.” Stoddard reached for his misshappen felt hat on a wall hook. “I’m going out for a talk with the Meade family. There’s a couple of angles to this...”

Vic said: “How about strike headquarters, boss? I know those union birds from the last tangle.”

“Not a bad idea,” Stoddard agreed, “if you’ll keep out of trouble and not tip your hand. And, Ben, much as you need sleep, I’m afraid you’ll have to keep the office open for a while.”

“What the hell ails Cora?” Girsh grumbled.

“You might try to find out,” Stoddard told him. “It’ll help you keep out of trouble.” He pushed the telephone across the desk and walked out quickly.

Vic shouldered his way through a crowd of idle hackmen on the sidewalk in front of strike headquarters. It was a bad-tempered crowd, hard-eyed and ominously quiet. Vic half expected a rap on the head as he made his way toward the stairs of the loft building. All he got was a couple of surly looks.

The stairs were deserted as was the meeting-room above. A gray light filtered through the dirty windows. Newspapers and cigarette butts littered the bare floor. Vic crossed to a hallway at the back of the room, pushed open a door marked Private.

Ed Holohan, red-headed, thick-necked business agent of the hackmen’s union, started up belligerently.

“Can’t you read, you—!”

“Easy, Ed,” Vic counseled. “Your blood pressure.” He moved into the room, faced Holohan across the desk. “Just a social call. I dropped in to see how you and the boys are doing.”

Holohan eyed him coldly during a long pause. Finally he said: “Drop out, Vic. On your way. What we’re doing is none of your business.”

Vic shrugged goodnaturedly and seated himself on the desk-edge. “You’d rather have me than the law, wouldn’t you?” he asked.

“No!” was the prompt reply. “We got nothing to be afraid of unless you’re stooling for the fleet-owners again.”

“You’ve got me wrong, Ed.”

“Not this time. You helped to glom the last strike for us.”

“Don’t be childish. You didn’t have the strength to swing it last time. I saw that and said so. If that was spoiling your strike... O.K., I did it.”

“We got the strength this time! There won’t be a hack on the streets until the employers meet our demands! Now run out and peddle that around!”

“Sure I will... if it’s true. You guys deserve a break.”

“Never mind the sob stuff. We’re making our own breaks this time. We’ve got them on the run. Benton Meade’s so scared he won’t even see us.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I’ve tried for two days to fix a conference. His office is stalling. They say he’s busy.” Holohan laughed harshly. “I’d like to know what doing!”

“So would I,” said Vic, glancing sharply across the desk.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” Vic riffled the pages of a telephone book, pushed it away. “Maybe he’s lining up some new drivers.”

Holohan’s jaw shot out, his color mounted. “Let him!” he yelled. “And if you were sent to tell me that, you take back word that we know what to do with scab drivers when they hit the street!”

“My! My! You wouldn’t resort to violence, would you, Ed?”

“You figure it out. If Meade is running in scabs — yeah, and private dicks — we’ll show him what fight means!”

Vic nodded, then asked: “Who’s running in the bombers?”

Holohan barked angrily: “You tell me!”

“I’m asking you,” Vic persisted.

“Anything else you’d like to know?”

Vic straightened, got to his feet. “There is,” he said, “and you’ve got all the answers.”

“So what?”

“So you’d better start telling me before I start beating them out of you.”

“Why, you—!” Holohan came up with an obscene snarl, flinging over the heavy desk as if it were cardboard. Vic jumped back, snapping the door lock with one hand, whipping out his automatic with the other. Holohan stood rooted, tense, his eyes on the gun.

Vic said: “If you’re not heeled, Ed, we’ll do it this way.” He stepped forward, tossing the automatic into a wastebasket in the corner of the room. His left fist lashed out, crashed Holohan’s jaw.

The big red-head went back a step then hunched his shoulders, charged. Vic poked another hard left to Holohan’s nose. Blood spurted. Holohan came on, hurling ponderous blows. Vic ducked and sidestepped, shooting short punches at his opponent’s head. Suddenly Holohan closed, smothered him in a bear-like grip. Together they thudded to the floor.

Holohan freed one arm, clubbed at Vic’s face. Vic covered, gouging with his elbows. He squirmed desperately as Holohan reached for the wastebasket. He saw the man’s fingers claw at the edge, heard the basket topple. With a quick twist he came up, pinioning Holohan’s outstretched arm beneath his knee. As Holohan rolled, Vic rolled with him, locking his other leg around the trapped arm, putting on the pressure with both hands.

Holohan struggled, kicked, reached for Vic’s throat with his other hand. But the armlock held, grew more intense. Sweat rolled from the big man’s agonized, blood-streaked face. His teeth gritted. There was a battering on the office door, shouts outside.

Vic gasped: “I’ll break it, Ed, if you don’t talk fast!”

Holohan made one final effort to free his arm, sank back groaning as the hold tightened. The noise at the door grew louder.

“Quick!” Vic panted. “Or else...!”

“See Gordon,” Holohan moaned. “It’s Link Gordon.” As the armlock eased off, he babbled: “Gordon’s brought hired guns into town. He’s gonna set himself up as an independent while we fight the fleets...”

Vic prompted: “And it was an independent cab that went up at South Station.”

Holohan mumbled: “They’ll try to pin it on us... just like you...”

“You half-wit!” Vic snapped. “I wasn’t trying to pin anything on you. I just wanted some information.” He got to his feet, scooping up the automatic.

“Next time I ask questions be a little more civil, will you?”

Holohan, still on the floor nursing his arm, pleaded: “Lay off this, Vic. We’ll take care of everything, including Gordon.”

Vic mopped his face, avoiding a rapidly swelling eye. He said: “I’ll let you know about that later, after I’ve seen Gordon myself. Now call off those mugs outside before I have to shoot somebody.”

Holohan stood up, unlocked the door. Vic was behind him, gun in hand. “It’s all right, boys,” Holohan said to the group in the doorway. “A little personal matter between Vic and me. He’s leaving now. Let him alone — for the time being.”

Vic, walking out, called over his shoulder: “I’ll be seeing you, Ed, out of my good eye.”

Stoddard sat scowling across the office desk at Vic Smail. “It’s what I’ve always told you,” he complained. “You can’t think beyond a fight. If you can’t use a gun or fists you’re not interested in a case. Hell, what are your brains for?”

Vic cupped his sore eye gingerly and tried to look sheepish. “I got a lead on that bombing and maybe some future strike trouble,” he pointed out. “If this Gordon—”

“You got a face that looks like a horse stepped on it,” Stoddard corrected. “Why not use your head instead of your muscle, at least part of the time?”

“O.K., boss.”

“I mean it,” Stoddard insisted. “You and Girsh are just alike. You think you’re tough — hard guys. But it’s a lousy way to do business and I don’t like it.”

“O.K., boss.”

“Tell Girsh what I said, if you can find him.”

“He left a note here. Said he’d located Cora at St. George’s Hospital and was going out there. She was brought in unconscious from an overdose of barbitol.”

“Barbitol? What was the matter? Couldn’t she sleep?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“Send some flowers. I’ll try to get out and see her tomorrow.”

“The Meade thing’s keeping you busy?”

“They ought to be getting another note from the kidnapers soon... seeing as how the first fifty grand was blown up.”

“That makes it pretty expensive,” Vic said reflectively. “Who was the fellow in the polo coat?”

“Lawrence Dean. Did you ever hear of him?”

Vic shook his head.

“Neither did I,” Stoddard said, “but it seems he was a steel man, well-to-do, sweet on Meade’s daughter. He drove up from Oreville last night at her request and went to the station this morning to do the job for them. You know the rest.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Keep working.”

“And the cops?”

“Not yet I may have to call them in later. A lot depends on the way the strike progresses.”

“You want me to stick on that?”

Stoddard sighed. “If I could trust you—”

“Sure you can, boss.”

“Remember, we’re not representing anyone officially. But if you get hold of anything concerning Meade’s whereabouts—”

“Sure. I understand.”

“And not a word about this fellow Lawrence Dean,” Stoddard cautioned. “If the cops link him with the Meade family the cat’s out.”

“Don’t worry,” Vic said. “I’ll stick to the strike. Maybe if I could settle it they’d turn in Benton Meade.” He walked toward the office door adding: “Of course that’s just a crazy idea of mine.”

“Crazy is right,” Stoddard assured him.

Emerging from the lobby of the building, Vic saw Livingston and Novak, from headquarters, standing on the curb beside his car. He turned back quickly but Livingston overtook him beside the elevator-bank.

“Relax, Vic,” the detective said.

Vic replied casually: “I’m pretty busy right now. Drop around tomorrow or the day after.”

“This is a pinch, Vic.”

“What the hell for?”

“Assault and battery. Ed Holohan’s the complainant.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Novak had edged up, watching Vic carefully. Livingston said: “I don’t care whether you believe it or not. We’re taking you in.”

“I had a row with Holohan,” Vic admitted, “but it was strictly a personal matter.”

Livingston nodded. “I can tell from looking at you. Come on.”

Vic went with them, complaining: “Imagine that heel, Holohan. We have a little fight and he turns me in.”

Novak laughed. “Let’s use your car, Vic,” he said. “You drive.”

The two detectives crowded into the front seat beside him and Vic started the motor, pulled away from the curb. On the way downtown, Livingston asked: “What was the trouble with Holohan? Strike stuff?”

“Well,” Vic answered, “maybe.”

“Come on, let’s have it. We’ll be mixed up in that strike ourselves if the going gets rough.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“No, of course not,” Livingston scoffed. “That’s why Benton Meade hired you during the last strike.”

“Well, he hasn’t this time.”

“Why not?”

“Ask him.”

“But still you beat up the union’s business agent. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I told you it was a personal matter between Holohan and me. We don’t like each other.”

“All right, but why pick out today to sock him? D’you think Holohan planted that bomb for you?”

Vic blinked. “What bomb?” he said quickly.

“You know the one I mean.”

Vic hesitated, then laughed. “You’re screwy, Livingston.”

“You’re not going to tell me you weren’t at South Station this morning.”

“Oh, I was there all right. But if Holohan was trying to bomb me this morning he wouldn’t be running to you now and squealing that I slapped his face.”

Livingston thought it over. “You can’t tell. I don’t trust Holohan any more than I do you.”

“How much is that?” Vic inquired.

“About as far as I could drop-kick this automobile.”

“I’m not flattered,” Vic said, “if the size of your feet are any indication...”

Livingston interrupted with, “Never mind! Let’s get back to the bombing.”

“There’s no hurry,” Vic said. “I’ll have to answer these foolish questions all over again at headquarters.”

“That’s right,” Livingston agreed.

Vic swung the car off Pearl Street and headed through Public Square. A moment later he jammed on his brakes and yelled: “Look, you guys! Someone’s getting lumps!”

A crowd of grim-faced, determined men had surrounded a taxicab diagonally across the roadway. The driver had been forced to stop or run them down. Now he was being dragged, fighting, from behind his wheel. Some of the crowd were jerking at the handles of the cab door, others were stabbing at the tires.

Novak, jumping out of the car, shouted: “Hold it, Vic! I’ll take care of this!”

At that moment a man in the back seat of the taxicab started shooting. The roar of gunfire topped the din about him with complete finality and was followed by a second’s breathless hush. Then the mob broke and began to scatter, running. All but two men, who lay where they had flopped to the pavement, sprawling.

Livingston had a police .38 in his hand, climbing out of Vic’s car. “You wait here,” he muttered.

Vic saw the cab-driver kicking frantically at his starter and the gunman at the sliding window behind him shouting orders. But the taxicab refused to start.

With sudden decision Vic eased his own car into gear and pulled down the street. The move left Livingston uncovered, sent him scurrying into a doorway. Vic glanced back, laughing, then spun the car around in one turn. Motor racing, he pulled abreast of the taxicab, knocked open his door.

“In here, punks!” he shouted. “Quick!”

The driver hesitated, but the gunman came clambering across the running-boards at once. He ducked into the seat beside Vic, yelled: “Let’s go! They got nothing on him!”

Glass broke behind them. In his rearview mirror Vic saw Novak approaching on the run, pistol smoking. He slumped over the wheel, released his clutch and sped recklessly across the square. Swerving into a side street without cutting speed, Vic saw Livingston and Novak both shooting after him. He grinned maliciously, drove through a red light at the next intersection, then made a sharp right turn and cut into an alley.

“All right,” Vic told his passenger. “You’d better drop that rod overboard, just in case. Then sit up. We’re hitting the main stem.”

The gunman complied. “Where you taking me, pal?” he asked.

“Back to Link Gordon, safe and sound,” was the answer. “Tell me the quickest way to get there.”

Twenty minutes drive along the waterfront and Vic, at the gunman’s direction, pulled up in front of what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. Windows of the dilapidated brick building were boarded up and the heavy double doors at the end of the driveway sagged on rusty hinges.

Nevertheless, the doors swung open as Vic’s passenger got out and approached them. He motioned Vic inside and followed on foot. “Pull up and wait,” he called. “I’ll tell the boss you’re here.” He started away, then came back to inquire: “What’s your name?”

Vic told him, saw that it failed to register.

Meanwhile the doors had been closed. Vic watched half a dozen men in mechanics’ overalls moving about the shadowy interior of the long room. Lined against the walls in double rows were taxicabs — the independent variety. There was a lighted workshop in the rear, noisy with activity. Near the front doors he had just entered, Vic spotted two armed guards.

A creaking freight elevator descended, a freshly painted cab was rolled off and moved into the line across the floor.

Vic’s recent passenger returned, summoned him with a gesture. “Gordon’ll see you upstairs,” he said. “He’s in a lousy frame of mind.”

“What’s troubling him?” Vic asked.

“Six cabs smashed so far today and a couple more pushed off piers.” The gunman’s mouth moved in a sour grimace. “This way — and talk fast.”

Link Gordon, broad, bulky, with a flat, scarred face and the neck of a wrestler was standing with his back to the wall of the cubicle he used as an office, waiting for them. He shot a suspicious look at Vic, but seemed amused at the sight of his visitor’s black eye. He waved the gunman from the office and began: “You’re the Vic Smail who works with Stoddard, so you ain’t here to do me any good. I suppose I owe you for keeping that hood out of the can.”

Vic shook his head, sat down. “I was on the way to jail myself at the time,” he said. “Your boys putting on a show gave me a break.”

“What were you going in for?”

“Socking Ed Holohan.”

Gordon’s thick lips curled in a grin. He took a square bottle and glasses from a desk drawer, saying: “Then I still owe you. Help yourself and tell me what’s on your mind.”

Vic drank, studied Gordon who had seated himself behind the desk. “It occurred to me,” he said, “we might go on doing each other favors.”

“Maybe yes. It depends. What can I do for you?”

“You can go on not liking Holohan?”

“That’s easy.” Gordon’s eyes narrowed with shrewdness. “And what do you do?”

“Give you some information that will save you a headache — and a lot of cabs.”

“So? That’s quite a fancy proposition,” Gordon mused. “But I’ll tell you plain, mister, I’ve already got the headache and I want no part of Holohan.”

“Listen,” Vic said, “You and I see eye to eye on that buzzard. I hate his guts. Sure it’s mutual, but he’s not wasting any love on you either.”

“So he’s a pain to both of us. So what?”

“You be the doctor,” Vic said pointedly.

Gordon grinned again. “That’s what I thought. You want some favor — a murder. I should do the dirty work for you and Stoddard? Yeah, and Benton Meade.”

“Why Meade?”

“You’re tied in with him. Everyone knows that.”

“Then everyone’s wrong. And it’s a funny thing, you bringing that up. I figured you were tied in with Benton Meade.”

Gordon put his drink down, spluttering. “Me! What the hell...?”

“Sure,” Vic said. “You’re not bucking him and the union both. Not single-handed. You may be plenty tough and have a good-sized roll, but—”

“Never mind about that stuff,” Gordon interrupted. “Let me tell you about Meade.”

Vic sat forward attentively. “A pleasure,” he said.

Gordon poured himself another drink, swallowed it slowly. “On second thought,” he said, “skip it. Either you’re trying to con me or you’re plain nuts.”

“No,” Vic said, “but I may be wrong. It was just an idea.”

“You’re full of bum ideas, mister,” Gordon told him. “First you want me to get Holohan for you—”

Vic broke in: “Nothing the matter with that. That’s still a good idea.”

“Look,” Gordon said with a show of patience, “I’m a very busy man. I’ve got enough trouble.”

“If that’s what you think now, wait until tonight.”

“What about tonight?”

Vic hesitated. “I could say skip it, too,” he pointed out, “only I’d like to play ball with you and get Holohan properly taken care of. So I’m going to go right on doing you favors. Here’s the layout.

“The strikers are going to start shoving your cabs off the Doric Line pier at nine o’clock tonight when the Norfolk boat docks. They’ll be concentrated there, set to wreck or sink every cab of yours in the neighborhood.”

“Where’d you get this information?” Gordon demanded.

“Straight from the feed-bag,” Vic said blithely. “Strike headquarters.”

“And is Holohan going to be there at the pier?”

“To the best of my knowledge, yes.”

Gordon cocked an eye at the ceiling, pondered. “If you’re a right guy,” he said slowly, “and this dope is anywhere near correct, I’ll do you a favor that is a favor. Maybe even a couple of favors.”

“Take your time,” Vic said.

“It won’t be long if you’ve told me a straight story,” Gordon said. “I’ll take care of Holohan personally — tonight!”

“You’re not so tough to do business with.” Vic offered his hand.

“We’ll see,” said Gordon.

Five minutes later Vic was well away from the warehouse, headed for home by a devious backstreet route. When he reached the apartment he found Girsh waiting, propped up on the lounge, a half-empty bottle of Scotch on the table beside him.

Vic took one look at Girsh and moved the bottle out of reach.

“I need it, Vic,” Girsh complained. “I just came from the hospital. Cora got it.”

“Cora got what?”

“A knife under the ribs. She’s dead — murdered.”

Vic stiffened, sucked in a breath. “How come?”

“A strange thing,” Girsh said, leaning back and closing his eyes. “She was feeling better this afternoon, snapping out of it, the nurse told me. She was in a private room and had a couple of callers. The last visitor left just before I arrived. The nurse said it was O.K. for me to go in — she was sure Cora was still awake.” Girsh moved shaking fingers across his forehead and reached for his glass before resuming. “But it... it was terrible, Vic. I stood there looking at her — I don’t know how long. Then I let out a yell that brought the nurse running.

“Cora had rolled over on the knife. The sheets were all stained red...” Girsh’s voice died out, he turned his face away.

Vic stood watching him, then moved the bottle back across the table. “I feel like a drink myself,” he said. “Poor Cora. That’s tough.” He gulped down a shot of the whiskey. “Didn’t the nurse know...?”

Girsh said quickly: “Not a thing. They don’t take visitor’s names out there. She only had a vague idea what the guy ahead of me looked like.”

“But Cora hadn’t been dead long.”

“It was hard to tell. Maybe two minutes — maybe ten. The nurse got panicky. The whole hospital was upset.”

“I can imagine,” Vic said. “What’d you do?”

“Learned what I could,” Girsh answered. “Gave them the information they wanted in turn. Then I came out here. I felt sick — still do.”

“Sure. Take it easy.” Vic walked to the telephone table near the door, picked up an envelope lying there. “Does Stoddard know about Cora yet?”

“I doubt it, unless someone in the hospital caught him at the office. They expected me to tell him — but I hate to.”

“Naturally,” Vic agreed. “The boss will be plenty upset. He was fond of Cora. She’d been in the office a long time.” He tore open the envelope, adding: “But I guess we better get word to him, even if he has got the Meade case on his mind.”

Vic unfolded the note paper, read it quickly, glanced up. Then he studied the note at length and re-folded it, smiling. “More news for the boss,” he said, dialing the office number.

When Stoddard’s voice came over the wire, Vic said: “Here’s a hot one, boss. I just got a note from Benton Meade’s kidnapers, warning me to lay off.”

“So did I,” Stoddard responded. “What else did they say?”

“That if I don’t, I’ll get the same as Lawrence Dean.”

“That’s a new line. Nothing like that in mine. They know who they killed, eh?”

“Apparently.”

“Save that note. I want to see it. And how d’you suppose they figure you’re on the case?”

“They probably know I work for you and that you’re handling it,” Vic answered. “And, boss, there’s something else.”

He hesitated, groping for words.

“It... it’s about Cora...”

Stoddard was silent a moment, then answered in a low voice: “I’ve heard about it. Is Girsh with you?”

“Yes. And pretty sick.”

“When am I going to see you two again?”

“Later tonight. I’ve got something pretty hot on the strike. Link Gordon’s mixed up in it, but I can’t tell you any more on the phone. Maybe we’ll get a break out of it. I’ll know for sure by ten o’clock.”

“All right, come in then. And tell Girsh to do what he can about the other — about Cora. I’ll want to take a hand in that just as soon as I can get a breather.”

“Sure, boss.” Vic racked up the telephone, waited briefly, then dialed union headquarters and asked to speak to Ed Holohan.

“Listen, bum,” he said when the business agent answered, “this is your little playmate, Vic Smail. Instead of trying to put over a rap on me, here’s a real job for you... that is, if you’re man enough to go for it. All you’ve got to do is bring your wrecking crew to the Doric Line pier before the Norfolk boat pulls in tonight. Link Gordon, in person, and his mob will be there... Yeah, in their cabs. Don’t thank me for the tip, I only want to show you up for a yellow rat.”

He hung up quickly and winked at Girsh.

“Just setting the stage for a little fracas,” he explained, working the dial again. Into the phone he said: “Let me speak to Livingston.”

The mention of the headquarters detective’s name brought Girsh upright, muttering: “What the hell are you doing, Vic...?”

Vic winked again. “Get a load of this.”

A moment later the connection clicked and Livingston’s answer came over the wire. “Sorry I had to run out on you this afternoon, Livingston, old boy,” Vic began, “but I’m going to make it up to you with some dope that’ll put you in line for promotion.” He waited patiently while the detective raged, showering him with abuse. Then he resumed: “So now I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, pal. At nine o’clock tonight Link Gordon and his hoods will ride up to the Doric Line pier looking for trouble. They’ll be set to gun out any and all strikers. If you show there with plenty of help you ought to bottle up the whole mob. You’ll not only get Gordon himself, you’ll do a lot toward ending the strike. Thus you become a hero, Livingston, a model cop — right down to your fallen arches — due to the consideration and good wishes of your old chum, Vic Smail...”

Vic interrupted another tirade of abuse by adding: “Take my word for it, you’ll have a fight on your hands. All hell’s going to pop.”

This time the detective began barking questions.

Vic cut him short with, “That’s all I can tell you, Livingston. Take it or leave it.”

He hung up and turned to Girsh. “Better begin pulling yourself together, Ben. We’ve got a hell of a big night ahead of us...”

Two blocks from the Doric Line pier Vic pulled into the shadows and parked. He glanced at his watch. It was 8:45. After a careful survey of the street in both directions he slid from behind the wheel and started on foot for the pier.

Rounding into the side street that led to the paved square fronting the pier sheds, Vic noted with satisfaction that the entire neighborhood was comparatively dark. Street lamps were few and far between, and trucks at the freight entrance to the pier, and private cars parked in the center of the square, had their lights dimmed. The Norfolk boat was not in sight.

Vic strolled casually along the sidewalk, keeping in the shadow of the building. No cabs had appeared as yet. Only a handful of men loitered along the curb.

As Vic passed a pile of crates that jutted across the walk he was seized with startling suddenness, spun around. A powerful hand was clamped across his face, wiry fingers jerked at his collar from behind.

Vic shoved at the hand that was smothering him. It came away to disclose Holohan, the union boss, jaw thrust out and regarding him with baleful eyes less than a half-step away. Vic jerked, trying to free himself from the choking holds, and realized that two more pairs of hands had seized him from behind.

“All right, wise guy!” Holohan was snarling. “Stay right where you are and take it! You’re the one who arranged this party. Now you can be guest of honor!”

Vic gulped, tried to speak. A fist from the darkness thudded against the side of his head. Holohan warned: “None of your lip! You’ve talked enough for one day!” He moved still closer, thrusting his battered face near Vic’s. “It never occurred to you that we’d have a couple of men planted in Link Gordon’s outfit, did it? Or that Livingston would check your tip with us? Well, that’s where you outsmarted yourself — trying to jam us with Gordon’s mob and the cops at the same time. Now if any shooting starts you’ll get a front seat. Way in front!”

Holohan broke off as a voice whispered from behind him.

He stepped to the curb and peered across the square.

From the narrow street entrance was emerging a line of taxicabs, newly painted — all independents — heading toward the pier. The cabs circled the central parking space in the square, pulled into the curb at the far end. Thus they commanded the side street as well as the square itself. Still the Norfolk boat had not docked.

Calculating his chances in the event a street fight broke, Vic decided to risk it. With a quick twist he tore his right arm free, dug for his shoulder holster. A crashing blow on the jaw sent him spinning against another of his captors, but the gun came out blazing.

The roar echoed across the square, brought instant response from the parked cabs. Flame belched from open rear windows, bullets thudded into wooden walls, ricocheted along the street. Vic went down in a pile of diving, crawling bodies. A heelplate ground into his wrist and the automatic fell from his grasp.

Sirens screamed in the side street and the gunfire broke off abruptly... only to be renewed a moment later with increased frenzy.

Squirming toward the curb, Vic watched Gordon’s mob clash with the police. The first of the taxicabs to leave the square and head into the side street were caught in a cross-fire, literally ripped apart by a hail of lead. Tires blew, glass splintered and above the din of firing came the agonized yell of a wounded driver, who leaped from his seat, tottered crazily and plunged face down to the pavement.

Vic saw the bulky Gordon clutching a sub-machine gun and leading a knot of gangsters in hurried retreat on foot toward the pier. Police cars were edging into the square and spreading out to angle their fire at Gordon and his followers.

Vic raised to one knee, shouted: “Here they come, Holohan! We’ve got Gordon trapped! Let’s take him!”

“Take him yourself!”

The voice came from behind a barricade of crates.

“Where’s my gun?”

A hand reached from the shadows and knocked against Vic. His groping fingers closed on the butt of an automatic. Crouching low, Vic ran into the square, approaching Gordon directly from behind.

Two of the gunmen with Gordon dropped their weapons simultaneously, broke for cover. Gordon hurled curses after them without pausing in his fire at the police cars that were closing in about him.

Twenty yards in the rear, Vic stood erect, bellowed: “Drop it, Gordon! I’ve got you cold!”

The mob leader whirled, weapon flaming. Vic slid to the pavement, raised his automatic, aimed carefully. Before he could pull the trigger, Gordon gave a gasping cough, slumped forward in a heap. The sub-machine gun clattered to the street. Four remaining mobsters hesitated, unnerved, leaderless. The police closed in with a rush.

Vic got to his feet in bewildered surprise as Les Stoddard climbed from a police car, approached with Livingston and Novak.

“Hey! What you doing here, boss?” he shouted.

Stoddard walked closer, pushing back his ancient felt hat to regard Vic with sorrowful mien. “Winding up my case is all,” he said. “Hand over your gun, Vic.”

Vic’s lips twitched in a smile that faded quickly as he observed Stoddard’s revolver pointing at his chest. “What’s up, boss?”

“Your game.” Stoddard spoke coldly, his eyes glued to Vic’s. “Your squeeze play didn’t quite come off. Now hand over that gun. The police want you.”

Vic surrendered the automatic with a shrug. “The heat’s got you, boss. Livingston wanted me for assaulting Holohan, but after this night’s work he ought to reduce it to a ‘dis con’ rap or spring me altogether.”

Stoddard smiled ironically. “He wants you and Ben Girsh for murder, Vic. Three murders, to be exact. Benton Meade, Lawrence Dean and Cora Winters. We’ve got you dead to...”

Vic dived forward, clutching at the sub-machine gun beside Link Gordon’s body. With a scarcely perceptible motion of his arm, Stoddard batted his revolver against the base of Vic’s skull.

Livingston knelt beside Vic, then looked up.

“You were plenty quick with that, Stoddard.” he commented approvingly.

Stoddard pocketed his gun slowly. “I can be tough, too,” he said. “When it’s necessary.”

Vic came to with an aching head as the squad car drew to a halt fifteen minutes later. He was bundled out, marched between Livingston and Novak into Stoddard’s office. Girsh was there, bound hand and foot to a heavy chair, gagged with a towel.

“There’s the other one, Livingston,” Stoddard said. “Neatly tied up for delivery.”

“Much obliged.” Livingston smiled gratefully. “And what about this confession you spoke of?”

Stoddard said: “Take his gag out. He’ll talk. He’s tired of being tough. I smacked all that out of him earlier tonight when I caught him piling Benton Meade’s body into the rumble seat of his car. I was waiting in the garage in back of their apartment house, expecting such a move.”

Vic shuddered, sank to a chair. “You... you’ve got Meade’s body?” he muttered.

“And that’s not all.” Stoddard reached under his desk. “Here’s a pillow slip I found hidden in your closet at the apartment. It contains the fifty grand you took from that kit bag at South Station this morning, after sending the checkroom clerk out to get you toast and coffee.”

Stoddard turned to the headquarters detectives. “That clerk will make you fellows a nice witness. So will the cab-starter at the station. He can identify Girsh as the driver of the cab that blew up when Lawrence Dean got in. The bomb was wired to the springs in the rear seat. Weight on the springs completed the circuit. You’ll find some leftovers from that homemade bomb in their garage, also the license plates they switched from the hack they stole and later blew up.

“In case you’re puzzled,” Stoddard continued, “the idea in back of the bombing was not so much to kill Lawrence Dean as it was to cover their theft of the fifty grand. They didn’t know Dean and had no motive for bumping him off other than to completely stall any search for that ransom money.”

Livingston, who was busily jotting notes on the back of an envelope, said: “So much for the bombing.”

“That’s only one item,” Stoddard agreed. “The Benton Meade snatch was the start. Vic Smail and Ben Girsh figured — and rightly — that the strike trouble would result in a soft pedal on the kidnaping and, what’s also important, that I’d be called in to handle the case. Thus, they’d be working on the inside, presumably helping but actually hindering me.

“They worked out the time element carefully. They knew Meade. They knew the strikers. Pretty well assured the walk-out would be staged on schedule at six o’clock this morning, they laid for Meade night before last and got him without much trouble. You see, they’d worked with him before, knew his habits, the route he drove home.

“But, by the same token, Meade knew them. Which meant they had to bump him off as soon as they got him. When that was done, all that remained was to collect the ransom by a tricky device and then pin the blame for the whole business on someone else. In casting about for the logical victims of such a frame-up, they hit upon Ed Holohan and Link Gordon, both of whom had plenty of reasons to want Meade out of the way.

“That’s where Vic started his squeeze play — first getting Holohan into a fight, later, pulling Gordon off his base with that double-cross tip on trouble at the pier. There was sure to be a fight down there tonight — gunplay. Vic was ready to kill Gordon himself if necessary. The police saved him the trouble. But don’t forget he was there, gun poised, when Gordon got it. And I’ll tell you why he was there.

“Vic and Girsh had decided to frame Gordon for the kidnaping of Benton Meade. Their plan was to have Girsh dump Meade’s body in or near Gordon’s warehouse headquarters while Link and most of his mob were away, decoyed into a fight and, as it turned out, death. Gordon, dead, couldn’t defend himself from the rap they had framed for him. Meanwhile they’d written some fake ransom and warning notes. Vic even addressed one to himself. All in line with their plan of diverting suspicion and throwing me off the trail.

“But I got on the right track late this afternoon when Cora Winter’s brother came to see me. He was the visitor that preceded Girsh at the hospital. He learned from Cora that she had overheard Vic and Ben talking here in the office about the Meade snatch, hours before they were supposed to know anything about it. They guessed she’d overheard them and realized their danger.

“So Vic took Cora to dinner and doped her drinks with barbitol. They hoped to have the ransom money safely cached and the kidnaping pinned on someone else by the time she came out of it. But when Girsh went to the hospital to check on Cora’s condition this afternoon, he found her getting better fast and plenty sore. She was so sore, in fact, that she made the mistake of accusing Girsh and Smail — and got the works.

“Girsh admitted that. He told me of stabbing her and holding her mouth shut to stifle her cries until she died. Then he sounded the alarm himself. That helped him to escape once more, but only temporarily.

“That was a bad bungle, their first misplay. And Girsh realized it. Vic must have too. Still they thought they had a chance to come through, bluff it out. But that stabbing shook Girsh up. It broke his nerve. He cracked completely tonight when I caught him in the garage...”

Vic Smail was on his feet, stumbling across the room toward Girsh. He screamed: “Rat! Yellow belly! Couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut, could you? Now you’re going to burn! Both of us will burn!” He broke off, babbling incoherently.

Stoddard snapped: “Get a load of that, Livingston! There’s a real break!” He jerked the gag from Girsh’s mouth, adding: “Fell for a little squeeze play of mine, didn’t you, Vic? Let Girsh tell you—”

“Shut up!” Girsh was yelling. “Keep your mouth closed, Vic! I’ve told ’em nothing!”

Vic Smail tottered backward a step, looked dazedly from face to face, then began to sob hysterically.

Stoddard laughed grimly. “Tough guy!” he mocked. Then to Livingston, “Lock ’em up, copper. I guessed a part of that story I just told you, but it was mostly the truth.”

Livingston untied Girsh, handcuffed his wrist to Vic’s.

“They look good that way,” Stoddard commented. “You might even stick them in the same cell. It’d probably save the state some trial money.”

“Come along and watch what I do with ’em,” Livingston invited.

“Not me,” said Stoddard wearily. “Tonight I’m going to get some sleep. And tomorrow I’m going to get some new operatives. Smarter ones, and not too tough.”