Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 104, No. 4, August 22, 1936

They were after Daffy Dill’s double-edged dagger, something he had never stopped to think could swing either way into a quick payoff.

I

On a dark and gloomy Monday morning when I was feeling like a frog who’d been mud-packed during a drought, I arrived at the city room of the New York Chronicle to engage in a little more or less honest work which pays me fifty-five smackers a week.

I was passing wearily through the outer reception office, when who should give me the highsign but Dinah Mason, the platinum-haired Westport gal who is the blight of my life and who handles the switchboard of the Chronicle’s frantic telephone system.

“Well, well,” she said, cocking her head for a good look at me. “If it isn’t Custer’s last stand. What poisoned you?”

“Garbo,” I said fervently, “never mix old-fashions and daiquiris. I have learned — to my sad regret — that these concoctions are too, too inimical.”

“Inimical?” she said. “Ha-ha. That reminds me — the Old Man was speaking of you only Saturday and he used the same word. Only he said that Daffy Dill and a news beat were inimical. I don’t know what he could have meant.”

“The Old Man,” I said stiffly, “was just talking through his hair — which he has not in large quantities. I’d like to tell him a thing or two—”

“Why, that’s fine, Rasputin,” Dinah said. “Only ten minutes ago he told me to tell you that he wanted to see you when you came in. Run right along, Daffy darling, and just in case you’re thinking of proposing again, the answer is — as ever — nay, nay.”

I wasn’t doing any good there, so I dragged myself wearily through the city room to the Old Man’s private doghouse and went in without knocking, just to bolster my bravado.

The Old Man was sitting at his desk with his green eyeshade down over his face and his bald head glistening like a snake’s spine. He looked like a little goblin and the moment I came in, he said, “Hello, Daffy,” without glancing up, and then: “Sit down.”

I sat down and lighted a cigarette.

“Daffy,” he murmured, looking grieved, “a very sad thing has happened.”

“Chief!” I said, alarmed. “I’m not fired?”

“Worse than that,” he said. “Solly Sampson is home, fighting with a pair of lavender elephants. He was out on a binge last night and therefore he cannot handle his beat today.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Something tells me I’m the guy behind the eight ball.”

“Being as how you are such an elegant sailor,” the Old Man replied ghoulishly, “I figured that today you could take over Solly’s department and cover the waterfront. Specifically, the job is this: the S. S. Aranthic arrives at ten today from a round-the-world cruise. Aboard her is ye well-known and now retired insurance detective, Kirk Rainsford.”

“Listen, chief,” I said sadly, “I like the sea like a fish loves a solid cement swimming pool. Nix on it. I’ll be sick all the way down the bay. That tug is a gem when it comes to rolling.”

“I was saying that Rainsford is aboard the Aranthic.”

“As for him,” I remarked, “I always thought he was a first-class crook. I always figured he cleaned up these insurance things too fast — and always collected the reward. It was my theory that he employed the heisters to lift gems so that they could all split the bonus dough. You’ll remember, he never seemed to catch the crooks, he always returned the gems.”

“Regardless of that,” the Old Man snorted, “here is your story. When Rainsford sailed last January, Mrs. Oliver Lane, widow of the late oil tycoon, commissioned Rainsford to bring her back a two hundred and fifty grand star ruby from India. Today he arrives. A photo of said ruby will be news. Also — how it was bought will be news. You cover — or else.”

I groaned and started to protest, but he held up his hand and looked sternly at me.

He said, “Daffy — the Oracle has spoken. Now take it on the lam. Jimmy Harris will carry the camera for you. And listen, you imitation pencil-pusher, I want a story this time, understand? Lately, all your yarns turned out to be unborn babes. I want news, not hopes. And so, if you will now kindly get the hell out of here, I will go back to work.”

“Yea, verily,” I said, and left.

So there I was at nine-thirty a.m. standing on the stern of the Aloha which is the hula-hula handle of the tug that takes the ship news reporters down the bay. Jimmy Harris was with me, his Graflex under his arm. And I was watching the water and beginning to feel peculiar.

But I made the Aranthic without mishap. And after a climb up the Jacob’s ladder and with the steady deck-boards under my tootsies, I felt a lot better.

We were met at the top of the ladder by a swell-looking blonde, who told us she was Julie Hilton and that she was social director of the ship and could point out all the celebrities aboard.

“We have many famous people aboard, gentlemen,” she said, “and I’m sure you’ll want to interview them all.”

“Madam,” I said, stepping forward, “we are not interested in famous people. We write only of the notorious. So if you will kindly lead us to the ménage of a former shamus by the name of Kirk Rainsford, I am sure all the boys will not neglect to say that we were greeted on the Aranthic by an angel whose only difference from Greta Garbo was that Garbo had an MGM contract. Lead on, Ariel, lead on.”

Miss Hilton led on. She was a good sport and she took the kid with a nice smile. She led us to “A” square amidships and there handed us over to the purser and said, “These gentlemen wish to interview Mr. Rainsford.”

“Fine,” the purser said. “Follow me, please.”

We followed him down the port corridor to A-61 and I noticed that another officer brought up the rear. The purser knocked on the door, it opened, and there stood Kirk Rainsford, tall, gray, his eyes as furtive as ever, his thin mouth twisting down in a crooked smile.

“Well!” Rainsford exclaimed heartily. “I’ve been expecting you boys!”

“Hello, Kirk,” I said drily. “The hell you have.”

“Daffy Dill,” he murmured, staring at me. “My word — what are you doing on the waterfront trek? Given up covering crime?”

“Who, me?” I said. “I’m covering you today, aren’t I, friend?”

Rainsford laughed. “Still the same suspicious Daffy,” he said to everyone at large. “Thought I was a phony, boys, and I think it’s broken his heart that he’s been wrong.”

“No man could be as clever as you’ve been — honestly,” I said, smiling.

He laughed again. “Well, you’re frank at least. I like you for that, Daffy. But you’re dead wrong.”

“How about the ruby?” Jimmy Harris asked. “We want to see that ruby and get our pictures.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Rainsford said, holding up his hands. “The ruby is in the purser’s safe at the moment. He will have to get it — or better still — we had all better adjourn to his office. He has told me that it will be necessary for him to stand armed while the stone is examined. You can understand that, I’m sure.”

“Sure!”

“Let’s see it!”

“Come on!”

“Just a moment,” Rainsford said, grinning. “Gentlemen, this is something in the nature of an event. I have performed my last mission for any client. Rainsford, super-sleuth, is absolutely retiring from this day on. And as a memento of this day, I want you all to have a drink. One of you pour the drinks. The makings are right there.”

“I’ll handle it,” some one said.

“Now let’s see,” said Rainsford, “there are twelve of you. I’ve brought back several souvenirs for you. Daggers — symbolic things.”

“Yeah?” I asked. “What do you mean — symbolic?”

He stared at me. “Why, Daffy, don’t you know. Because a newspaperman will never hesitate to stab you in the back. Here they are, boys, daggers from the island of Bali. One for each of you — and now one drink—”

He sat down and the drinks were passed out, rye and honey and ginger ale. “I give you a toast,” he said. “The Lane ruby, with the most perfect star in it ever to be seen here.”

We all drank.

It couldn’t have taken thirty seconds for even the slowest man to finish. Yet in that time, Kirk Rainsford drank his last drink anywhere.

I took my glass down from my lips and I glanced at Rainsford and started to say something when I saw how waxy white he suddenly was. “Holy—” I started to say, then I slopped and grabbed Jimmy Harris and snapped: “Get a shot of that quick!”

“Shot of what?” Jimmy said, dazed.

“Rainsford!”

“But why—”

“Get the shot, get the shot,” I said, biting off the words. “You damned fool — can’t you see? He’s dead!”

II

Everything blew up. The boys went wild. The flash bulbs began to flare and the cameras went to work and a couple of guys from the Planet started for the door, but the purser yelled, “Come out of that, you two! Nobody leaves this room!” And when they turned around, they saw he meant it. He had a .32 caliber Colt pistol in his hand.

As for me, I was in no hurry to get home to the Old Man. There was a yarn here, but not just the fact that Kirk Rainsford had kicked in. I went for his glass and I got it first and had a nice long whiff.

Cyanide of potassium...

Right on top of that Brown, of the Herald, found the white envelope on Rains ford’s dressing table and snatched it up.

“Wahoo!” he said, looking frantic “Here’s a letter — for us!”

I snapped: “Let’s see it!”

He handed it to me like a hot potato

Printed in ink on the face of the envelope were the words: FOR THE PRESS.

I ripped it open and pulled out the letter inside, unfolded it and read it.

“Aloud,” some one demanded.

“Okay,” I said. “Here it is: ‘Gentlemen of the Press: I have discharged my last obligation and have retired permanently from further detective work. Must a man have a motive for killing himself, other than the fact that he is generally fed up with things? What better stage would I need than this one, surrounded by reporters from all New York’s papers. What an event — mat I should die by my own hand in your very midst. That is all there is, sirs. I trust I have not dimmed the story of the ruby too much and I bid you all farewell. Kirkland Rainsford.’ ”

The message had been printed in ink, but the signature was written out in his familiar flourishing hand.

“Let me see that,” the purser said. I gave it to him.

While he read it, the reporters kept protesting. “For Pete’s sake, mister, we’ve got a story here! This is hot, man, Rainsford commits suicide — are you gonna keep us here all day?”

“Well,” the purser said reluctantly, “this seems rather clear. But just the same, you will each report to my cabin in turn so that I may go over your credentials.”

We were herded down to “A” square amidships where the purser’s office was and we stood in line. “Take your time,” I told Jimmy Harris, so we took the end.

When we finally reached our turn, we both went in and handed over our press cards.

“New York Chronicle?” the purser said. “You certainly had enough men covering this boat.”

“How come?” I said. “Just the two of us. I’m reporting. He’s taking pictures.”

“I know that,” the purser said. “But how about the other chap?”

“What other chap?”

“Sampson. Solomon Sampson. His card said he was a Chronicle—”

“Boy!” I cried.

The purser stared. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Solly Sampson is home sick in bed!” I said. “That’s why I’m here! This isn’t my regular beat! This is Solly’s — and if some one else had his card—”

The purser got me. “Come on. They’re all still aboard.”

We left the office and ran through the square to the port side of the ship. We were moving slowly up the bay now past the Statue of Liberty toward the Hudson River. We went to the railing where the other officer was standing. “Where did they go?” the purser asked. “They couldn’t get off the ship. Where did those other reporters go?”

“They scattered, sir,” the officer said. “They’ve probably gone up to the radio shack with the news to put it on the air.”

“Let’s go!”

The four of us went up to the hurricane deck beneath the bridge to the radio shack. It was jammed. All the boys were in there, all crying to the frenzied operators to take the copy they were hastily scribbling.

“Hold it!” the purser snapped. “No messages, Sparks! All you men line up!”

The room became densely quiet with unnatural abruptness.

“How many of you came aboard originally?” he asked them.

“Twelve, friend,” I said. “When Rainsford handed out the Balinese daggers, he counted us for twelve.”

“There are only eleven now, including yourself.”

It was true. But nobody could remember who the twelfth man had been. You know how it is.

“Which one of you poured those drinks?” I asked.

Everybody looked at everybody else and no one answered.

“Sparks,” the purser said, “get me New York police headquarters on the ship-to-shore telephone and make it snappy.”

He made his call and told the sad tale and then went down to his office and I followed him and asked him if he were sure Mrs. Oliver Lane’s ruby was still safe and sound.

He took a look and it was.

Which made the case even screwier.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “The police will be at every custom gate on the pier. The instant this chap shows that Solomon Sampson news pass to get out — they’ll nab him.”

I wasn’t so sure. The whole thing was lopsided and it seemed to me that if a guy had been smart enough to murder a man in full company, a mere mob of flatfoots wouldn’t bother him much. And still I couldn’t get it. The ruby was safe. Rainsford was dead. The suicide note — probably a phony.

But the signature looked genuine. And that meant that Rainsford had been killed by some one who either knew him or knew his fist.

III

Well, it turned out that my hunch had been pretty good. At one o’clock every passenger had cleaned up his luggage and there wasn’t a soul left on the pier except the custom men and the police.

And no one had presented a newsman’s pass with the name Solomon Sampson on it.

When the ship had first docked, I went right downtown and wrote the story. Only I had an inside track. I called it murder right from the start because that was the beat. The other poor scribblers didn’t know that Solly’s pass had been heisted.

After I wrote the yarn, I went back uptown to the dock where I found Lieutenant Bill Hanley who is why the homicide squad of our fair city enjoys such repute.

“Hello, Poppa,” I said.

Hanley looked glum. “’Lo, Daffy,” he said, chewing stolidly upon the unlighted cigar in his mouth, his face as homely as ever. “I suppose you heard.”

“Your man got away.”

Hanley nodded. “I don’t figure it at all. Don’t see how else he could ’a’ got through.”

I said, “Sometimes I wonder, Poppa, how you get along. I’ll tell you how I would have worked it.”

“How?”

“I’d have done two things. First, I’d have stolen a newsman’s pass. Then I’d have procured a custom pass, issued to those who wish to see friends aboard ship before they finish with the customs. All you do is write to the line, ask for a pass, mention the passenger you are going to see, and the pass is sent to you.”

“Well?”

“Then — like the killer did — I’d have posed as Solly and gone aboard with the reporters. After killing Rainsford, I’d have used the custom pass to get through the customs after the ship docked. Mighty smooth guy, eh?”

“As simple as that!” Hanley grunted, stomping on his cigar and grinding it to pieces. “There may be a slip there at that. I’ll check with the line and see if any passes were issued to friends of Rainsford.”

“Did Doc Kyne see Rainsford?” I asked. Dr. Kerr Kyne, the buzzard, was chief medical examiner of New York County.

“Yeah.”

“Cyanide.”

“Yeah. And no prints on that suicide note, Daffy. Oh, Rainsford was bumped all right. But for God’s sake, will you tell me why?”

“I can’t tell you,” I bluffed, “because it’s an exclusive story in the Chronicle. The homicide squad should really subscribe. It would help you out no end.”

“To no end is more like it, quack,” Hanley grunted, grinning at me. “There’s no green in my eye, Daffy. You’re as dumb as I am on this one.”

I said, “That’s a fact, Poppa. But I have got a lead, at least. I’ll give you a buzz later.”

“Right.”

I caught a cab and rode east to Solly Sampson’s quarters, an apartment house on East 92nd Street and when I reached there I paid off and went upstairs.

Solly was in bed.

“Oh, Daffy,” he groaned, balancing an ice bag on his head, “if you could feel like I feel — it was a red truck — it hit me when I, a sober citizen, stuck my foot off the curb and merely began to—”

I said, “All right, Solly. Skip the act.”

“The act?” he said. “I feel terrible.”

“Yeah?” I said. “And you’ll feel worse when you know what you missed. You were supposed to cover Rainsford’s return with the Lane ruby today, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, the Old Man said he’d send you.”

“He did. And Rainsford was murdered.”

Solly put down the ice-bag and sat up. “Murder on the high seas! Twelve years I’ve been on the waterfront beat and it happens the day I’m blotto!”

“The guy who bumped Rainsford got aboard posing as you — using your pass.”

Solly just gaped.

I said, “Now drag your brains together and do a lot of recalling, you cluck. You were taken last night and taken sweetly. And you so young. Where were you?”

Solly said soberly, “Surf Bar. 52nd Street.”

“Alone?”

“I was. But another guy bought me a couple of drinks and then we binged.”

“Who was he?”

“I never saw him before. He said his name was George Baker. He was a nice little guy and he sure handed out the drinks.”

“He knew who you were, I’ll bet?”

“Yeah. He said he recognized me.”

I shook my head. “And have you figured out why you were sick today? You were Mickey Finned, you sap, and you aren’t out of it yet! He lifted your wallet and got your pass and probably gave you back your wallet. Were you out when you got home?”

“I don’t remember a thing. I woke up in bed,” Solly said.

I nodded. “I’ll see you later,” and I left.

I took another cab down to 52nd Street to the Surf Bar which used to be one of the better speakeasies and which hankers to the Broadway crowd now as a respectable bar. It was moderately filled when I got there, mostly women chattering at their afternoon cocktails.

The bartender was an Irisher named Mike McFee. He knew me. I went over to him.

“And how are ye, Daffy Dill?” he asked cheerfully. “I ain’t seen ye hereabouts since Hector was a pup! What’ll it be?”

“Info from you,” I said quietly. “You know Solly Sampson.”

“Shure I do. He’s in here all th’ time.”

“He was here last night. Were you on?”

“Shure.”

“There was another guy with him. Who was it?”

McFee looked at me and then moved his eyes away. “Shure and I don’t know, Daffy. That’s the truth.” He coughed behind his hand. “Somethin’ happen to Solly?”

“Solly’s all right. He got a Mickey Finn in one jigger last night. Did you slip it to him?”

“Glory be to God, ’twasn’t me, sir!”

“All right,” I said. “Then quit the kidding. This other bird came in last night. You know who he is. He asked you to point out Solly Sampson when Solly came in. You did. Then he proceeded to binge with Solly and he took Solly home. Now, who in hell was it?”

“I... I can’t be a snitch, Daffy.”

I said soberly, “Listen, Mike, there’s murder in this. Did you ever hear of an accessory before the fact being just as guilty as—”

“Holy Peter!” McFee whispered. “I had nothin’ to do with it, Daffy! He jest came in and says for me to point out who Solly Sampson is. Faith, I didn’t know—”

“Never mind what you didn’t know,” I said. “What do you know? That’s the catch... come on, Mike, who was the bird? Loosen up...”

“All right,” he said finally, taking a deep breath. “It was Leo Stivers.”

“Fine,” I said blankly. “And who the hell is Leo Stivers?”

“That I wouldn’t know,” McFee replied in a low voice. “But him it was with Solly last night.”

“Don’t you know anything about him?”

“He runs a sorta pawnshop and jewelry store on Broadway between 38th and 39th Streets.”

I said, “That’s got it, Mike.”

IV

I was walking out of the Surf Bar vestibule when a man came up to me and said, “Have you got a light, pal?” He was short and skinny and he had pop-eyes. He wore a salt and pepper suit and a lemon-colored straw hat and there was an unlighted cigarette hanging in the corner of his mouth. I‘d never seen him before in my life.

“Sure,” I said. I took out a clip of matches and handed him it. He struck a match and lighted his cigarette and as he handed the clip back he said, “Daffy Dill, ain’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Crime reporter on the Chronicle.”

“Are you telling or asking?”

“Telling. You were on the Aranthic this morning when Rainsford bumped off. He gave all the reporters each a dagger. Balinese belly-rippers. You got one. Have you still got it? It’s worth money.”

“I’ve got it,” I said. “How’d you know all this?”

“It’s in the papers. Every damn reporter wrote about it. You want to sell your dagger?”

“What’s it worth?”

“That depends. Have you got it on you?”

“Sure I have it,” I said. “Right here.”

“That’s all I wanted to know,” he said. “Now get this straight and don’t pull a phony. There’s a brown coupé at the curb behind me. There’s a guy in it with a .38 pistol silenced, un’er-stand? Play ball or take one between the eyes!”

I stood still for a moment and I let my eyes wander to the car at the curb. The man who sat in it grinned at me in a nice palsy-walsy way and just over the edge of the car window I saw the blunt cylindrical muzzle of a silencer. I said: “What’s my move?”

“Get in.”

I walked over to the curb and climbed into the car, edging under the steering wheel close against the man with the gun.

“Well, if it ain’t Mac,” he grinned, smelling of garlic. “We had quite a time this morning, didn’t we?”

I stared at him. “I get it. You’re the guy who poured the drinks.”

“Now ain’t you the detective!”

“You’re the guy who slipped Rains-ford the cyanide and—”

“Quiet, Mac,” the gunman said, leering. “Suppose a flatfoot heard you! Why, he might arrest me!”

“Skip that stuff,” said the man in the straw hat, getting in under the wheel. “Get the dagger and see that Dill doesn’t pull a sandy.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m learning. I don’t know who you are, but this ape-man with the gun is Leo Stivers.”

The driver laughed. “Way off, Dill, way off. I’m Leo Stivers. Now doesn’t that cover it all nicely? Oh, you’re a smart egg, even if you haven’t figured it out. Got that dagger, Porky?”

Porky reached over into my inside coat pocket and pulled the dagger out. As a matter of fact, it was the first time I had seen it since Rainsford handed them out. It had a sheath like a derringer. Sounds funny, but that’s the way it was.

Black wood, shaped like a pistol. That was to take up the curvature of the blade itself which was a nasty thing about eight inches long and shaped like the fang of a saber-toothed tiger with a four-inch grip of polished teakwood. There were three thin white lines painted around the grip. Stivers and Porky saw the lines and sighed. “Well,” said Stivers, “that’s a load off my mind. That’s the one, Porky. No mistake. Sit tight.”

In a few minutes we pulled up in front of a combination pawn and jewelry shop with the name L. STIVERS on the ripped awning.

I said, “If this isn’t a fence, I’ll pass up my two weeks in August.”

“You ain’t takin’ no vacation in August, Mac,” Porky remarked grimly. “You ain’t goin’ no place from now on. Inside and watch your P’s and Q’s.”

We went in. Stivers had to unlock the store which made it plain he and the Porky specimen were the only two in on the thing. We went through the dusty imitation of a shop into the rear room where I was jammed into a creaky chair.

“Dill,” Stivers said coolly, watching me, “know what’s going to happen to you?”

I looked at the pistol in Porky’s hand. “I’m beginning to get the idea.”

“The bump.” Stivers smiled. “Pal, it’s kind of queer in a way. We let Rainsford put the finger on you himself before he died.”

“Don’t get you.”

“Then maybe I’ll get big-hearted and tell you. I guess you’ve figured it all the way now anyhow. You see, pal, when Rainsford took that cruise to bring back a two hundred and fifty grand ruby for Mrs. Lane, him and me got together and did some figuring. We figured that if the customs knew he was going after a ruby like that one, all on the level and for a rich dame like Mrs. Lane — they’d think he was all on the level, see? So we got the idea of him smuggling in some rubies on the side for a nice profit.”

Porky grunted. “Listen hard, Mac. It’s your last bedtime story.”

Stivers went on: “So I put up fifty grand and Rainsford put up fifty grand and he bought them rubies for us to cut here and sell — without any duty.”

“Sure,” I said. “I get the rest... you’d had letters from him. You wrote a suicide note and forged his fist to it. Then you went out and slipped Solly Sampson a Mickey Finn last night and lifted his pass. Plug-ugly here used the pass to get on the Aranthic this morning. You’d fixed it with Rainsford to hide the rubies in the handle of a dagger, with three white lines on the grip. So Rainsford handed out a lot of nice presents and gave me the ruby dagger for me to smuggle — unknowingly — through the customs.”

“Keep talking,” Stivers said. “It’s a shame to have to bump a guy like you.”

“Porky,” I said, “was to spot a reporter who got the ruby dagger. Me. But you double-crossed Rainsford. As soon as Porky knew who had the ruby dagger, he slipped Rainsford the poison and there was only you and your hundred grand worth of rubies, with Porky getting a small cut. Porky got through the customs himself with a regular custom pass, procured before the ship arrived. You tailed me and first chance you had you herded me.”

“Right,” said Stivers sadly. “So you see, it ain’t really our fault at all. Rainsford put the finger on you when he gave you the Balinese dagger with the white lines.”

I grinned. “He never did like me.”

“Stand up.”

“Wait a minute.” I stood up, feeling the muzzle of Porky’s pistol against my back. “Before you two gents commit a little murder, maybe we’d better settle one thing.”

“Yeah?” Stivers stared at me.

“Yeah,” I said. “Did you ever consider the fact that Rainsford might double-cross you?”

They looked at each other. “Go on, Dill.”

“I wouldn’t know myself,” I said, “but I have a funny feeling that your rubies aren’t in the grip of that knife.”

I was stalling. There wasn’t any reason why they wouldn’t be. But I was trying to get Porky close up against me while Stivers broke the grip.

It worked.

Stivers grabbed up the black sheath and pulled the dagger out of it, his eyes half-closed as he glared at it. Behind me, Porky shifted nervously. I could feel the muzzle of the rod in my back. It wasn’t nice. It made me shiver. I’m not the kind of nitwit who can laugh off a clip of slugs all ready to go places.

“What about it, Leo?” Porky asked hoarsely.

“I’ll see.”

Stivers stuck the hooked blade of the dagger under his heel and bore down. The blade held, but the teakwood — it was hollowed out — split loudly and the grip, surprisingly, came away in Stivers’ hand.

He gaped at it, his pop-eyes working grotesquely. “Empty! It’s empty!”

“What?” Porky cried.

That was the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party. Poppa Hanley had taught me the trick and I used it. The muzzle of that pistol was close against my back on the left side. I stiffened my arm, holding my elbow straight down and I whirled like a top.

My elbow hit the barrel of the gun and jerked it away from me toward the right, while my own right hand came around in order and grabbed Porky’s gun wrist. Poppa Hanley’s next instruction had been to bite.

I bit.

I dug the old canines into Porky with all the ferocity of a rattlesnake with St. Vitus dance and he yelled like a tortured banshee and slipped the .38 to the floor. Then I crossed a feeble left to his chin, because I was off balance, but as it pushed him back from me I took a nose-dive for the floor and grabbed that gun like the farmers grabbed their AAA checks.

Stivers was a quick boy. Quicker than I gave him credit for. I’d expected him to have been slowed down by the fact that Rainsford had double-crossed him — which was as much a surprise to me as anyone — but not Leo.

He had a revolver off his hip in seconds and he took one shot at me just about the time I descended for the pistol.

He missed me and he fired again, twice. I don’t know how it happened. Maybe a ricochet. But Porky took one of those bullets below the stomach and fell over right on top of me.

He was the heaviest and safest shield a man could have had. I saw Stivers’ legs below the table and I started peppering them myself, surprised at first at the quiet action of the silenced .38 gun.

“Get up, get up off him, you fool!” Stivers yelled. “Give me a chance at him!”

But Porky wasn’t getting up for no one no how on account he had a stomachache.

Stivers started to run around the table and I let one go at his face. It missed by a hair. He must have heard the crack of the bullet passing. He turned stark white and backed off crying, “Porky! Porky!”

Then he started to lam.

By this time, I rolled out from under Porky, covered with the trigger-man’s own blood and I went to my knees with my head just over the top of the table and the .38 ready for business when Stivers — on his way out into the front part of the store — stopped dead, staring.

“Drop it, rat,” some one outside said.

Stivers was too panicky to drop it. He fired his gun once, wildly.

He was answered by a single crack from a Police Positive and he caught the slug in the most painful place, the kneecap, and crumbled like the 1929 stock market.

I didn’t need a map then. I knew it was Poppa Hanley. Kneecaps are his favorite targets.

He came in, roaring, “Daffy! Daffy, are you all right?”

“Yea, verily,” I said, sighing at the sight of the shambles. “Would you mind, Mr. Houdini, telling an ignorant reporter how you got to this garden of Eden?”

Hanley stuck an unlighted cigar in his mouth and put up his gun. “Hell,” he grunted stolidly. “I been following you ever since you said you had a lead, and it’s been a nice merry-go-round. When these two Pollyannas picked you up, I figured your lead was too hot. And as for the front door — why do you figure I carry this ring of keys?”

“Well,” I said, “congratulations. The big one slipped Rainsford the cyanide. The little one engineered the whole thing.”

“What’s this broken dagger?” asked Hanley gruffly. “They were looking for the rubies, hah?”

“Hey, Fido Vance,” I lied, “how come you know that, too?”

“Know it?” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Wasn’t I the guy who found a stack of smuggled stones in the heels of Rainsford’s shoes? Him and these scrambled yeggs were in cahoots on a little side-smuggling. They double-crossed Rajnsford after he had double-crossed them!”

I sighed.

“Poppa, you get too smart. You are very bad for my ego. And now if you will kindly pass the smelling salts I will get to a telephone and inform the Old Man that he has something in the nature of a small scoop.”

Things like that make the Old Man almost human...