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

Backfire by Robert E. Larkin

John Cramer was one of the slickest confidence men in the game until he tried a fast play in a new racket.

Three times John Cramer read the letter that lay on the desk before him. Three times he cursed the sender of the letter, Peter Rush, the founder of the Land Owner’s Loan Company, and Cramer’s senior partner.

Why, he wondered, did Rush have to pick now, of all times, to retire? Cramer fidgeted. One good break was all he needed in the stock market. He could then replace the shortage and no one would be the wiser. But now — he cursed Rush again, and for the fourth time reread the letter.

It was short and to the point. The auditors would arrive on the morrow at the request of Peter Rush to go over the company’s books.

Six years had passed since that day Rush had taken him into the firm. Six years. It had been a long, hard climb, but he had made it. He looked at the lettering on the glass panel of his office door: “J. Cramer, Vice President and Treasurer.” Again he cursed Rush, as his mind went back over the years.

Unknown to Rush, Cramer had once been one of the slickest confidence men in the game. At the time Rush offered to take him into the firm, things were going bad. People no longer had ready cash to be taken in by any cock-and-bull story that was put up to them. Hence, he had snatched at Rush’s offer like a drowning man, sensing an easy mark in the trusting loan company’s president.

And now Rush had decided to retire and take things easy. It had been a sudden decision. With his retirement in mind, he had made arrangements to turn the firm over to Cramer, taking a large amount of the working capital and the rest in payments, which could be decided on at a future date.

Rush’s decision, however, came at a time which threatened to play havoc with Cramer’s plans. For three years, now, Cramer had been “borrowing” from the firm’s ready cash, faking entries in the books, always chasing that elusive “strike” in the market. Time after time, he had taken company funds to play a hunch, with the result that he became more deeply imbedded in the clutching mire of debt.

Thoughts drummed at Cramer’s mind as he sat there in his office. Where was he going to get twenty-one thousand dollars before tomorrow? Of course, there was the joint insurance policy he and Rush had taken out. But a loan on the insurance would still fall short of the necessary amount. He needed all of it.

He thought of the trusting Rush who had insisted that the policy be taken out at once, and in favor of either, should anything befall the other. The policy was for twenty-five thousand dollars. He must have that money.

If anything should happen to Rush before the auditors came in the morning, the examination would be put off long enough to give him time to collect the insurance and replace the money.

Cramer had not flinched at the thought of murder. Since first reading the letter he had given it much thought, but was at a loss to find a means of carrying out the plan. His glance strayed to the office window. He stiffened suddenly. A car standing on the opposite side of the street caught and held his attention.

He remembered the auto show he and Rush had visited several months before, and how they had taken a liking for the same car. Both had ordered one of exactly the same model in every detail.

Rising quickly, his eyes were cold and expressionless as fish eyes as he went over his suddenly formulated plan. Satisfied, he strode to the hat rack, donned his hat and left hurriedly.

Cramer brought his car to a stop before one of a long row of brownstone houses in the poorer part of the city. The house, a very familiar one to Cramer, was the headquarters of one of the city’s most daring auto theft rings, and known to very few persons.

Cramer mounted the half dozen steps and knocked on the heavy door. A slot opened and a pair of eyes surveyed him. The slot closed and the door opened and he was ushered into the presence of the big shot of the “Hot Car” ring.

Marty Reecher, seated behind a battered desk in an equally battered chair, was a slim, nattily dressed mar of forty with a small, brown mustache waxed at the ends. Nothing in his appearance betrayed him for what he was, as he deliberately studied Cramer’s heavy form for several seconds.

“You look like you’re in the money, Evans,” he finally drawled. “Things must be looking up these days.”

“The name is not Evans, now,” Cramer told him shortly. “And I didn’t come here to pass the time of day.”

“But I thought you were out of the racket,” Reecher returned questioningly. “What business can you have with me?”

“Whether I’m in or out of the racket is nobody’s business but mine,” Cramer snapped. “But let it pass I’m here on business. Of course, you remember a little case some seven or eight years ago in which my testimony saved you from a little stretch up the river?”

“So what?” Reecher demanded. “You don’t have to remind me of it. What do you want?”

Cramer drew a sheaf of bills from his breast pocket and tossed them on the desk in front of Reecher.

“There’s two hundred there,” he remarked as Reecher picked up the bills and started to count them. “I want a little job done on my car. Do the job right and there’s another three hundred that goes with that.”

“For five hundred dollars I’d build you a new car,” Reecher assured him. “Whatever it is, you can consider it already done.”

Eight thirty the next morning found Cramer bringing his car to a stop in front of his partner’s home. Rush’s car, an exact duplicate of his own, was already parked there. He thought the setting perfect as he switched off the ignition and started to climb out.

He was too intently thoughtful, however, to notice that his partner’s car, as usual, partly obstructed the driveway, a habit formed by the aging Rush who much preferred walking up and down the less tiring, gentle slope of the drive to that of the several short flights of stone steps.

Cramer reached under the dash before stepping from his car and threw a small, cleverly hidden switch; the switch which set into motion the primary machinery in his plot to do away with his partner.

Anyone pressing down on the starter after that switch was dosed would be blown to bits by the bomb which had been planted under the driver’s seat. Reecher had done his work. How well it had been done would be known shortly.

He purposely left his key in the ignition switch. One glance into Rush’s car showed him that, as usual, Rush had also left his key in the ignition lock.

Cramer did not knock as he entered his partner’s home. And he found his partner seated comfortably at his breakfast.

“Well, John,” the senior partner looked up as Cramer came over to the table and stood there, “this will be about the last time we will be going to the office together; and in a way I’m rather glad. Had breakfast?”

“Yes, thanks, Pete. And as for the office,” he turned and started toward the door, “I’m afraid I can’t wait for you this morning. I just thought I’d drop in to see if I could make you change your mind about retiring. If your mind is made up, though, my stopping here has been of no consequence.”

“That’s right, John,” Rush assured him somewhat wistfully. “I’m through for good. I’m not getting any younger, you know. I’m going to have a little fun while I can.”

Cramer nodded. “In that case, I’ll be going. The auditors will be at the office by the time I get there, and I want to give them all the help I can.” He started to leave, but turned suddenly. “By the way, you left your key in your car again. I saw it as I came in. That’s a good way to have your car stolen.”

Rush grinned sheepishly. “I guess you’re right, John. I’ll try to remember it after this.”

“The damned, complacent-faced old fossil,” Cramer murmured as he closed the door and started back to the street. “Just wait till he steps on that starter.”

“Dad,” Mr. Rush’s eldest boy came into the room and stopped beside his father, “Sis wanted to get out with the roadster, but your car was blocking the drive. So I ran your car around in back of Mr. Cramer’s. If he takes your car by mistake, you can tell him about it when you get down to the office.”

“You shouldn’t have done that without first telling—”

A deafening explosion obliterated the rest of the sentence.