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

Detective Devrite had seen their marks on his friend’s throat, and knew they were reaching for his own, hungrily, avidly.

I

George Devrite stared at the water-washed corpse on the morgue sliding slab. The head was rigidly back so he could see the long green-tinted fingermarks on the throat.

“There,” he thought, “am I, save for luck and the grace of heaven.” For Devrite was a secret agent of the New York police and the dead man, picked up in the lower harbor as the tide swept him to sea, had also been one of Inspector Hallihan’s operatives. And Devrite knew that if Waite had then been standing looking at a brutally murdered Devrite, Waite would have felt the same burning rage he did, a desire to avenge a comrade’s death.

Hallihan, large and favoring a fireman’s haircut, put his curly head to one side as though viewing a choice painting. He clinched a burnt-out cigar stub in his lined Irish mouth. He felt as did Devrite about this murder. He was furious and wished to get his hands on the killer, but he was a cool man of long police experience and knew as did Devrite they must keep their heads. He was giving Devrite a private showing of Waite’s remains. Devrite worked under cover, was unknown to detectives as well as criminals.

“I should hate,” remarked the inspector, “to have whoever did that get his hands on my throat when I was down. There’s not another substantial injury on the body, the life was choked out of him. See how deep the tips drove in — takes strength to do that.”

Devrite held his nerves in iron control; there was a grim set to his lips and he knew he would go the limit to capture the killer of Waite. “And the green tint where the nails drove in?” he asked.

“Part of the discoloration.”

Devrite shook his head as though he did not believe that. His lean form was bent, hands clasped at his back. “I’m not so sure. If we could find the spot where the murder occurred—”

They left the body and retired to a police room.

“Here’s all I’ve got,” said Hallihan rapidly. “About a week ago a Mrs. Evans came to us and asked for a confidential interview. She was worried about her son Robert, a teller in the United Bank. It sometimes happens a mother comes to us in a last desperate attempt to save a child. She couldn’t say what she feared, but he was staying out late and she thought he was gambling; though it was his general manner which frightened her so she came to us. She believed bad companions were corrupting him and was willing to place him in small trouble to save him from worse.”

“You must give her credit for that.”

“Yes. Most let it slide or are blind until too late. I gave the report to Waite. He didn’t call in for several days but I thought nothing of it since you fellows sometimes go weeks without reporting. Yesterday his corpse was picked up in the harbor — the medical examiner says it’s been in the water three or four days anyway. Probably it sank, snagged and then washed out. That’s all I know; the only link is Evans, the bank teller.”

“Let’s hope,” murmured Devrite, “for his mother’s sake that she didn’t come to the police too late. If Robert Evans had any part in Waite’s murder—”

Hallihan shrugged. “He burns,” he said tersely.

Devrite left with Evans’s business and home addresses in his trained memory. He never carried papers that might embarrass him.

It was a bright morning; the pavement was warm under his soft shoes. In the Wall Street bank he picked out Robert Evans in a cage marked with his name. Evans was 24, slight of body. Devrite kept away, but could see dark circles of dissipation under Evans’s eyes.

Later he glimpsed the mother, a pretty woman of fifty — he was down the hall on the second floor of the Washington Heights apartment when Robert came home that evening. “Hello, son,” the mother cried, throwing her arms about him.

It would, thought Devrite, be a terrible thing if she had fingered her only son as a murderer — perhaps Evans was too darkly entangled for saving. Devrite hoped to help her. It was imperative that swift action be taken, however; once hooked a young man might slide with breath-taking speed to the bottom. His wish to aid Mrs. Evans was a further reason for solving the killing of Waite.

Through the door he heard a few thin words: “I’ve got to dress in a hurry,” said Robert. And shortly after he appeared clad in a tuxedo, and his mother said wistfully, “I’ll wait up for you.”

Devrite followed Evans. It was 7:45 and evening was falling on Broadway as he “put” Robert into a cabaret on the Great White Way. Devrite took a small side table set a step above the dance floor surrounded by tables and on which a buxom girl in scant clothing was singing a song. The agent had a full view of Robert Evans at a table for four with another man and two pretty women. The swing music of the band sent the couples dancing on the polished floor.

So far it was harmless enough. A young man sowed his oats or they cropped out later at inconvenient points. The girls were chorus variety, not inherently depraved; the pleasure in such a hot spot consisted of spending money and believing oneself a jaded youth-about-town.

Devrite, cigarette trailing smoke between his long fingers, observed the second man. He was tall and broad at the shoulders; high cheekbones and depth of eye-socket gave him a distinguished foreign look. And when Devrite caught some of his words the tall man spoke with a German accent. Through a burst of other sounds he heard one of the girls cry: “Oh, Count von Hult, you’re so funny!”

“Count” von Hult — he wondered if the rangy man was really a noble. Von Hult was elegant in full dress with white tie and boiled shirt, patent leather slippers gleaming with the sheen of his carefully plastered black hair.

It was a tiresome wait. Devrite’s ears buzzed with talk and vibrations of swing music; he ordered drink after drink to justify holding his table. It was 11 P.M. when the party left but instead of breaking up they repaired to a smaller nightclub.

Close to 1 A.M. they dropped the girls at a cheap hotel. In a following taxi Devrite trailed them up Fifth Avenue to the 80’s. There were many private homes left here and von Hult and Evans stopped at one. Devrite shrank back in the seat as the count stared at the passing cab. He let his driver go on around the corner, dismissed the taxi and strolled back — the cab von Hult and Evans had come in was gone and so were the two men.

Devrite walked slowly toward Madison. There was a high grille gate at the far side of the house into which his quarry had gone. Cars hummed on the avenues and a passing man’s feet clacked in the side street. Devrite paused just an instant to try the gate but it was locked so he kept on, turned left on Madison and found a delivery entry. He could work through the rear courts — some of the houses retained vestiges of yards.

Coming to the graystone by this back route he could look along a narrow alley with the house to the right and the high blank stone wall of an apartment on the left and see the front gate.

Devrite was now suspicious. He thought it strange that a man of von Hult’s evident wealth should associate with a poorly paid young bank teller.

He wondered if Waite had discovered von Hult — or did Robert Evans have other companions. This might be a blind trail but his interest in “Count” von Hult justified fuller investigation. The house windows were barred — usual here. He passed along the narrow cement walk; there was the dark recess of a side door and he paused to crane up at a dim-lit window—

The pain was excruciating, the pain of that sharp pistol barrel raking down his temple and cheek, mashing his upper lip against his teeth; the shock to his nervous system was so sudden his cry choked off in his throat and warm blood spurted inside his macerated mouth.

For a moment he fought by instinct, the instinct an animal has to defend itself. Then he saw the dark blur of his attacker and just managed to get up his forearm between his head and the again descending pistol barrel. He realized he had to do with a criminal; an honest man on guard would not have attacked without warning in that virulent fashion — had Devrite not paused to stare up at the window the steel would have hit him square in the temple and he would now be through, finished, like Waite—

Trained in jujutsu and the fine tricks of disarming an opponent Devrite could act as well as think with lighting speed. The man evidently wished to knock him out and not disturb the neighborhood. A guttural German curse — Devrite spoke it as well as French and Spanish — told him he was dealing with a friend of von Hult’s.

“You sneag!” growled his enemy. “I seen you try de gate—”

II

In the light shaft from the window which hit the stone wall of the apartment next door he saw the frowning face of his adversary. For the moment, Devrite was underdog but he had stopped that second crushing blow and his wits had come back. He was a much faster man than the thickset German; his right hand caught the automatic pistol, thumb ramming between the flat hammer all the way back and the firing-pin of the cartridge.

He fell away, pulling the German with him and, landing on his spine, shot his bent legs into the other’s belly, carrying him on over. Since Devrite held to the gun, the German was violently slewed around and his head struck the house wall; he grunted and jerked at Devrite and the secret agent had his thumb torn as it ripped out from the hammer.

Devrite was down; he realized the German would fire as soon as he could raise the gun muzzle. His hands clawed at his enemy’s right arm — the German was coming to a sitting posture from which he could shoot. Devrite heard his teeth grit together and he threw his body weight in as the German pulled the trigger.

The big automatic roared in Devrite’s eyes and he felt the impact of ravished air. It stunned him. He found he still held to the German’s right wrist, pressing it in, but the arm was limp and the man’s head dropped on his breast — he had pulled the trigger to kill Devrite, but the secret agent’s swift move had caused the slug to enter the gunman’s vitals.

Devrite came up on his knees, shaking his head from side to side, ears roaring. To him the explosion had seemed scattering; he believed it must wake the dead to say nothing of sleepers in surrounding houses. But as the seconds ticked off he heard no cries for police — he realized that in a motor-ridden city cracking explosions passed as backfires. The public was used to detonating reports through the streets. The gun muzzle had been pressed against the German and the clothing would act partially as a silencer.

He was piqued. More than anything he had wished to avenge Waite, and to do all he could to aid Mrs. Evans. This untoward incident might well ruin his plans, warn the killers—

He swung as the window slid up overhead. Von Hult, a pearl-handled pistol in hand, looked out and demanded harshly in German: “What is it? Is Herman with you?”

“Excellency,” replied Devrite humbly — he knew von Hult must have been aware of that guard or he would not have used the German, and Devrite answered in that tongue — “Herman is not here.”

“So, he’s at the place then. He sent you to guard me. Very well. Did you fire a shot?”

“No, sir,” replied Devrite gutturally. “A car passing backfired.” He looked up at the dark shadowed face — the window light touched Devrite but the dead man was well out of von Hult’s angle of vision.

“Stay dose,” ordered von Hult in his Junker tone of command — he spoke as a highborn one to a serf. “I will need you.” He drew back and shut the window.

Devrite inhaled a deep breath of the cooling night air. For the moment he had staved off exposure. But the guard’s disappearance would alarm von Hult sooner or later. It was evident the count had an aide named Herman who supplied henchmen all of whom von Hult did not know.

He meant to solve Waite’s murder; and he could not get out of his mind the figure of Mrs. Evans who might suffer the worst of human agonies over her son. He was urged on by a burning, vital necessity; speed was now essential because of the dead guard.

Why had not Waite’s capture warned von Hult — provided von Hult’s bunch was responsible for the agent’s death? The German he had collided with might have been set because of Waite but they evidently were persistent with Robert Evans. He concluded that they could not have known Waite was a police agent, if they killed him.

He bent over the dead German, hoisted the heavy body on his back and staggered to the rear. He went through a gate and down steps, bent double under the load. Hidden from view by two converging walls he switched on his fountain-pen flashlight. The German was coarse of feature, of peasant stock. Devrite’s beam stopped at the thick hands: he had a distinct mental shock as he saw the fingernails were stained green.

In the pockets he found a ring with several keys attached. His own pants were dirty from his hand-to-hand scrap in the alley; he threw off his coat and put on the German’s worn one that did not match his trousers, dropping the Luger pistol in a pocket. He hurried back to the side door.

“I may need you,” von Hult had said. Devrite looked at the door — his fingers touched the keys and he drew out the ring. The third one he tried fitted the spring lock and he slipped inside.

He was in a small hall, looking about. Ahead was a short flight of steps and he could hear von Hult’s voice raised in anger. To right and left were closed doors — there would be house servants but they would sleep on the top floor.

He started on tiptoe up the stairs: as his eyes came level with the story on which was the living room, he saw von Hult’s long legs flash past an open double door. He crouched and listened.

“You haff gone so far you will now do as I order,” declared von Hult. Devrite glimpsed the powerful figure; Robert Evans huddled in a corner of the davenport. “Fife thousand you owe me from cards. This iss the way you can repay. A gendleman pays his debts, Evans.”

“I’ve thought it over — and I won’t do it!”

A bank holdup? wondered Devrite. Abetted by the teller? But von Hult’s next words made that seem improbable.

“Dumbhead,” snarled von Hult, red with fury — he stood before. Evans shaking a fist in his face. “Now, hear: tomorrow you stard or else—” Von Hult broke off, the implied threat more ominous than any he might have uttered. “I am not the sord of man who can be cheated.”

Devrite was already convinced of that. Evans, facing von Hult’s towering rage, muttered, “All right — I’ll do it.”

The spy shrank, pressing against the rounded step edges as von Hult swept through the double doors and went up front. He heard the sliding metallic sound of a dial telephone. Von Hult spoke to the party be obtained in German: “Ja, bring it yourself, Herman,” and hung up.

Devrite backed down the stairs; it was time to call Hallihan. Evans must be trailed and checked at whatever he was about to attempt for von Hult. That was obvious.

It was fortunate he left when he did, for he was hardly outside when von Hult came down and opened the side door. “You are ready?” he said in German. “Your boss Herman is coming. After he arrives the young man inside will leave for his home uptown. Get out in the street and follow him. If he goes anywhere but to his apartment you will instantly put a bullet through his heart and make your escape. You understand?”

“Ja, Excellency—”

Von Hult closed the door. Devrite rapidly crossed down through the back court and hurried up Madison to an all night drugstore where there was a phone booth. He was glad to be out of the side alley before Herman came; von Hult might not know all the men but Herman certainly would. And he was also glad for Mrs. Evans’s sake that he had been there in place of the German guard when von Hult gave that order to kill Robert in case of a false step.

Hallihan was usually on tap, often slept in his obscure office down the street from Headquarters, outwardly an importer of beaded goods but actually the main receiver of reports made by such agents as Devrite.

“I haven’t much time,” said Devrite quickly. “Please radio Berlin on a Count von Hult.” He gave an accurate description of the man, told Hallihan of the dead German in the court, the address of the graystone house. “And,” he added, “send a man up to arrest Evans at his apartment.”

“Ugh!” grunted Hallihan, in distaste. “Soche’s in for it? I hate to think of his mother, after she came to us—”

“This is preventive. I’m sure of nothing yet except that von Hult’s up to some game involving Evans. I’m going to find out what it is. Von Hult must be watched continually from now on.”

“I’ll send a shadow up there at once,” Hallihan promised.

Devrite hung up and hurried back to the side street. He took up his post across from the graystone — von Hult had so ordered. Soon a dosed car drew up and a huge man in a dark suit and cap got out of the driver’s seat. He went to the door, carrying a brown bag some twelve inches square.

The secret agent had the Luger in his pocket. He thought he might need it when he saw Herman’s bulk — for he was practically sure this was the man von Hult had called. And it was vital for Devrite to finish the job; he must obtain evidence enough so Hallihan could send in the regular police. As yet he was not certain of anything, save that von Hult was a criminal.

Von Hult came to the door answering. Herman’s ring. They exchanged a few words Devrite could not overhear. The door closed. The giant German puffed down the steps and entered his coupé. The starter buzzed. Devrite ran down the side street as fast as he could go; Herman’s car went east and the secret agent was gasping for wind as he came to the avenue corner and jumped into a taxi waiting for a fare.

Herman drove to Avenue A. Devrite paid off his cab at the corner and watched the hulking German unlock the front door of a dirty brick front. Devrite approached. The neighborhood was dark and deserted at this hour, the street lights seemed too feeble to dispel the gloom; cast by the derelict buildings. The one into which Herman had gone had evidently in bygone years been a small factory but the downstairs windows now were boarded over and it appeared deserted.

III

It was George Devrite’s business to investigate such places. It might be simply Herman’s living place; or it might be his business quarters. It was imperative that Devrite obtain complete evidence to turn over to Hallihan. The police could not crash into every building that looked slightly suspicious. Devrite must get in. and see what went on inside.

He made a quick survey of the surrounding buildings, all of three-story height. There was a convenient alley two houses down which led him to the old-fashioned fire escapes in the rear. He started up, able to see thin edges of golden light around dark drawn shades of Herman’s second floor.

It had been a hard and rapid run for him; his mind was weary from the long strain. Aware, too, that if he wished to hook these fish he must complete the angling so. Hallihan would know what he was after, he pushed swiftly on. It was tantalizing to feel that he might almost have the murderer of Waite in sight; he must solve that. And if he could land, von Hult on a criminal charge the scare might be enough to save Robert Evans. Deep inside he hoped to accomplish these two objectives. Everything he had he was throwing into this case.

Catlike in his movements, a lone hunter used to running terrific risks to abet the Law, he went up three ladderlike flights to the roof, two buildings down from Herman’s.

He paused to listen before he stepped on the cracked tarpaper topping, paused to listen and peer into the gloom. Low parapets separated the different houses; beyond glowed the bright lights of Broadway, with twenty thousand policemen on tap but Devrite dared not call one to assist him directly, since he was an undercover-man and could not expose himself to friend or foe.

He was on the roof next Herman’s, keeping close to the wall so there would be no creaking under his soft feet. He slowed and a hand gripped the Luger butt. Now he was over on Herman’s roof. He listened again and the low hum of a motor with stamping sounds caused his eyes to widen — must be Herman’s place of business.

Then he saw that open trapdoor. No light came from it. The opening led into Herman’s attic. It was a warm night and such vents were often left for air. He crept toward it, foot by foot, and cautiously peered over, saw the ladder leading down. It was too good to miss; he descended, found himself standing in total darkness. The motor and stampings were plainer — a crack of light showed under a door ahead and he started on tiptoe toward it—

The electric light blinded him as the switch clicked on, flooding up the tiny room where he was trapped.

“Throw up yer hands!”

Devrite obeyed for he had heard the pistol cock; his eyes turned slowly to look into the hard face of a small man of obvious Teutonic blood, holding an automatic in hand, covering Devrite. He was fully dressed and had been sitting there in the dark.

The secret agent was desperate; he would have made a dive for that gun had the small man come close enough to allow the slightest chance of success.

“Oben the door und valk oudt,” ordered his captor.

Devrite had to obey. In the hall burned a small bulb in a wall socket lighting descending stairs. “Down,” snapped the man with the gun.

Devrite preceded him, acutely aware of the death at his spine; a finger pull and he would be through. He was angry at himself for having stepped into the trap; the whole business might now go up in smoke. And then there was the desire for self-preservation; he did not wish to die horribly, like Waite—

He watched his chance but none came. An open door led into a large rear room. The paraphernalia he saw at once told him what von Hult and Herman were up to: there was a printing press Herman and another man were running, an electric motor hooked up in careless home-made fashion, lead-in wires bare where a knife had scraped them off to make the connections. Devrite did not miss the possibility of a short-circuit of such wires.

There were bundles of fine paper. Under glowing 100-watt globes Herman was turning out bills, 50’s, 20’s, 10’s, 5’s. There were plates for each bill and- inks to touch them up for final passing.

It was a counterfeiters’ den and obviously Herman’s place of business; von Hult must be the chief of the bunch. And Evans — the bank teller — Devrite thought he understood now. A bank teller would be perfect to pass a large number of queer bills.

Herman swung ponderously and glared at Devrite. “Who’s this?” he demanded in German.

The small man reported, “Another thief. It’s lucky we kept guard. He came through the trapdoor and I caught him.”

“Good,” grunted the giant.

He scowled as he approached Devrite and slapped the agent’s pockets; he felt the gun and took it away. Devrite looked at the big man’s pudgy hands; they were stained green, green with indelible ink used in making the false money.

He understood now: Waite had gone from Evans to von Hult to Herman’s. He had, just as Devrite, found that obvious way into the counterfeiters’ den. Not having learned as much as Devrite at the graystone house, he had failed to phone Hallihan and had been caught and killed. The green ink had been scratched into the skin of his throat as they throttled him—

He knew, too, now, why the intrusion of Waite had not caused them to take alarm. “Another thief,” the small man had said. They had thought Waite a sneak thief.

“So,” Herman went on in thick English, “you come maybe to steal, you t’ief!” He struck Devrite in the face and knocked him sprawling against the wall.

“What’ll we do with him?” asked the small man.

“Wait,” counseled Herman. “The boss’ll be here soon. He must put the finishing touches on the new batch—” He spoke in German.

Devrite whined; “Aw, I was on’y lookin’ fer the price of a meal, mister. Lemme go.”

Herman stared at him grimly. “You haff seen too much,” he replied.

A buzzer sounded in the hall “Gus, you go down and let him in,” ordered Herman. He folded his arms and watched Devrite as his aide hurried to the ground floor.

Von Hult climbed the stairs, walking stick in hand. He came hurriedly into the big room. His face was dark with rage as he stood beside Herman looking at Devrite. The secret agent stared back at the master counterfeiter.

“Another thief, sir,” Herman reported. “We caught him like the first — this time we were watching carefully.”

Suspicion flared in von Hult’s deep-set dark eyes. “A second? You,” he growled, prodding Devrite in the ribs with his long fingers, “who are you?” — Von Hult’s fingers were quite clean.

Devrite spoke in as high a voice as he could make sound natural, for von Hult had heard him speak back in the alley. “I just t’ought it’t be a good place to knock off a few bucks—”

Von Hult cursed. He lunged at Devrite and seized the secret agent’s throat. Devrite felt the crunching of his windpipe in those powerful hands. His own flew to grasp the tautened wrists but he could not tear them away and his eyes popped out, blinded with water — all his wits, all his training came to him at that instant and he called forth all his reserve power. He seemed to surrender and as von Hult drove in, he drew back his fists and rammed them violently into von Hult’s stomach.

It broke the throat grip. Devrite fell and came up between von Hult’s crotch, lifting him off his feet and flinging him against the great, slow Herman, who was coming in to help.

Von Hult’s appearance gave the swift-thinking agent new hope. Hallihan would have had time to get shadows around to the graystone, and they should be outside now, having trailed von Hult. And, unless Devrite underestimated Hallihan’s ability, the fact that von Hult must have a criminal record back in Germany, that he was a master counterfeiter — such men are not made in a short time — meant the inspector would take no chances but would have von Hult heavily covered.

Yet somehow Devrite must signal those outside else they might be too late.

The wires near the motor were bare of insulation. He reached up and shoved them together. His hand was scorched and for an instant he felt the pricking needles of the current, biting in agony at his smashed lip. Blue sparks hissed but the lights suddenly went out and the current was off.

“Stop the door,” bawled von Hult.

Devrite in the blackness ducked under the long worktable and reached the fire-escape window. He smashed the pane with his fist and a stab of blue flame and the thud of a bullet in the still told him they had placed him and were shooting his way. He gave a penetrating, drawn-out screech as he dove out the window. The racket should be enough to bring Hallihan’s men in at once.

He was outside. And he heard von Hult shout, “They’re breaking in downstairs — hurry, over the roofs—”

Devrite started up the ladder instead of down. A man below in the court shouted at him, “Hey — up there! Surrender—” And when Devrite rushed on he fired a shot but the agent dove over the parapet and reached the trapdoor, slamming the thick panel shut on top of von Hult’s head. It knocked the German back inside, delayed the counterfeiters still further.

He had been correct: Hallihan had put enough men on the German to clean up.

Devrite knew it was time for him to leave and rapidly crossed toward the end of the block. At the river margin he looked out on the murky waters into which Agent Waite had been thrown. Von Hult had killed Waite, Devrite was sure from the length and narrowness of the marks on Waite’s throat. Though von Hult’s hands were clean they had been stained green when he choked Waite; probably von Hult had been working on the money when the other agent was trapped. He could use chemical solvent to wash off that indelible ink.

Hallihan would break a lesser member of the mob and pin von Hult; the evidence was all there.

Later he called Hallihan: “Did you get Evans?”

Hallihan replied, “Just a short while ago. We grabbed the mob, von Hult killed Waite. Evans took the counterfeit money von Hult gave him to pass at his bank and started home. But he went to the precinct police station and gave himself up instead; he had nothing to do with Waite’s death.”

Relief surged through Devrite; he was glad he had disposed of von Hult’s guard in the graystone alley else Evans might have died. “Evans stepped close to the edge,” he said, “but I don’t think his mother will need come to you again.”