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

Detective Chris Larsen knew there was no use bucking discipline, but he determined to try out his own methods when the huge navy payroll was being snatched.

I

Chris Larsen’s eyes were moody as he stared at the typewritten order transferring him from duty in the port city of San Pedro to the homicide squad in Los Angeles. His eyes turned to those of his superior, Captain of Detectives Judson, in unconscious appeal.

“Being a detective,” said Captain Judson, “is like service in the army. You take your discipline and like it. Hell, Chris, don’t you suppose I fought against your transfer? Damn it, you’re the best man I’ve got on the force. I pointed out your splendid record. And that made it worse. Your record is what’s causing the transfer. You’re too good for this hick, seaport town.”

“I never mixed with politics,” observed Chris. “Now, I wish I had.”

“Forget it,” snapped Judson. “There’s a future for you in...”

“I’m just a plain, hard-boiled dick,” said Chris. “And I ain’t kidding myself that I’m anything else. I like it here in Pedro. I belong here among the stevedores and longshoremen. And I’m not going to let any bunch of politicians kick me around...”

“You’ve got your orders,” broke in Judson. “Start packing.”

“You mean it, Captain?”

Captain Judson banged his desk with a heavy fist. “Mean it? Of course I mean it. Listen here, Chris. If there was any way under heaven I could break that order, I’d keep you with me. You know that — or you should.”

“Okay,” nodded the big detective. “I’m going out to breakfast. The order relieves me from duty, I suppose?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Chris shrugged. “I just wanted to keep the record straight in case somebody gets bumped off in this town within the next couple hours.”

A little while later the eyes of Detective Chris Larsen were still moody as he drank a second cup of coffee. San Pedro was his town — his life. What could ever take the place of its colorful and ever-changing racial groups, its husky stevedores, longshoremen and sailors from the Navy? How was he going to live without its bawdiness, drunken brawls, percentage girls and laughter? He didn’t know. He hated to think about it.

There was an actual ache inside the detective’s brawny chest. He never knew how much he liked the place until now. It troubled him. It made him think he was soft when he wasn’t. It made him want to squeeze certain police officials by their necks till they squawked.

Discipline! Sure, he was used to it. He could take it. But he wasn’t going to like it. Of that he was damn well certain. He lunged to his feet, paid his check, and went out to the street.

Free from active duty he felt queer and useless. From his pocket he took a sack of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. As he cupped his hand behind a match he heard sirens screaming.

He roused out of his moodiness. Fire! He looked up Pacific Avenue and saw a dense cloud of smoke on the right side close to Tenth Street. The smoke was so thick that it reminded him of an oil well fire. His eyes swerved in the opposite direction.

He stood there, listening, waiting. He saw a radio car cut in front of the fire trucks. Saw it swerve at the corner to avoid a slow-moving car crossing Ninth. Saw that its swerving was not going to help matters, then shrugged philosophically.

“Smash-up!” he muttered, throwing the cigarette to the gutter.

The radio car caromed sideways from the impact and crashed into a telephone pole. Chris started moving. When he reached the machine, Sergeant Gowry was crawling from the wreckage and mouthing profane epithets as he hauled his partner after him. The partner had an ugly gash in his forehead. His mouth hung open, and he was making a snoring noise.

Sergeant Gowry was excited — too excited to notice the detective Chris forgot he was no longer on duty. He grabbed Gowry by the arm. “Sergeant,” he snapped, “your eyes are bulging like a couple of grapes. What the devil is your big rush?”

Gowry broke into a run down Pacific. Chris kept beside him, Gowry’s voice jerked over his shoulder. “Stick-up, fellow! The Navy payroll. Close to half a million...”

The eyes of Chris Larsen hardened, and he became once more the man-hunter, hated and feared by waterfront gangsters. “What else?” he yelled. “Tell me more.”

“Yah!” gasped Gowry. “More? I don’t know any more. We were getting the details when that half-wit Calahan crashed into the pole.”

By this time they had reached the smoke-filled area. Half-blinded and coughing, Chris floundered through the smoke.

Gowry was in front of him wrenching at the handle of a Buick touring car. Chris’s sudden: “Hold everything!” stopped the sergeant. Chris spoke sharply. “Get out in the road and flag the fire trucks. This car ain’t burning. It’s the one behind it. Pfui, what a stink!”

A moment later a stream of water hissed into the center of whatever was causing the dense smoke screen. Chris choked in a cloud of nauseous vapor that almost gagged him. The smoke thinned. He was able to see.

Behind the Navy Buick was a battered, model T Ford. In front of it was a vegetable truck, one wheel jacked up, and the Buick was wedged between them, its front wheels against the curb.

The fire chief was pawing around the interior of the Ford. “Phosphorous candles!” he growled. “And broken glass from a stench bomb. Hey! Where’s the driver of this wreck?”

No one answered. More sirens. Three motorcycle cops drove up and took control of the traffic situation. An ambulance purred to a stop and out jumped two internes in white jackets.

“Keep away from the Buick,” warned Chris. “Here, Sergeant Gowry, hold the mob back. Bust their heads if necessary... oh, hell, what a shambles!” Chris had hold of a door handle and was staring into its blood-drenched interior. Three men in Naval uniforms were twisted in grotesque positions on the car seats.

A hand gripped his arm. He whirled, and there was a glint of vexation in his eyes for he thought some snooping reporter had crashed through the police lines.

“Out!” pointed Chris, his eyes snapping with impatience.

The man who was gripping his arm said: “No!” He turned back the lapel of his coat disclosing a metal shield. “Department of Justice,” he explained. “I’ll take charge. You’re—”

“Detective Lieutenant Chris Larsen,” said Chris.

“Heard of you. I’m McDonald, Special Agent. Your superior will receive orders from our field office suggesting cooperation. Meanwhile we’ll work together. Now. What’s happened?”

“Take a look inside.”

Special Agent McDonald surveyed the massacre. There was a tautness around his lips when he spoke: “Butchery, Larsen. The work of a machine gun at close range. But why?”

“See those initials on the door? U.S.N. That means Uncle Sam’s Navy. This is the paymaster’s car. And it’s my guess that it just came from the sub-treasury loaded down with brand new currency for the gobs of the fleet now at Panama on maneuvers. Swell, ain’t it? Sergeant Gowry says more than half a million...”

“It checks,” broke in McDonald, “with the first report I received. All right. Sergeant Gowry!” The radio car officer came over to the car. McDonald continued: “Find witnesses, Sergeant. Hurry before the crowd starts to move away. Ah! This way with the cameras, boys. Get angle shots through door openings from both sides. Also shots of the steering wheel and door handles.”

Two officers from the U.S.S. Vicksburg, supply ship for the fleet, had hurried over from the Navy landing. They identified the three Navy men in the Buick, and verified the fact that four hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars in new currency was missing.

The Special Agent took this all down in a note book. Big, brawny Chris Larsen watched the man. As a waterfront detective he was accustomed to more direct procedure, but he said nothing. Have to hand it to these G-men. They knew what they were doing.

Within three minutes after Special Agent McDonald took charge, wires were humming all over the southern part of the state. Teletypes were tapping out orders. Gowry had found two witnesses that had seen a tan sedan roll out of the smoke screen and turn up Tenth Street.

It was as simple as that. Radio cars picked up orders, relayed them verbally to state cops on motorcycles. The sheriff’s office received their orders. Within ten minutes a net began to tighten around San Pedro. Every road north and south was covered by grim-faced officers searching for a tan sedan.

All the main highways as well as feeder roads leading to Los Angeles were barricaded. No car answering this description could get through without being searched. The whole lower end of the state of California was sewed up tight.

Chris discovered after a time that he was merely acting as an errand boy. He left McDonald at the first opportunity and strolled back for a closer inspection of the Ford. In the gutter he found a big cork with a circle of glass attached to it. He picked it up casually, but his nose wrinkled as he dropped the foul-smelling clue in his pocket.

Then he went across the street to look things over from a different angle. Two stocky boys in denim overalls were sitting on the curb in front of a candy shop. One of them was saying: “On account of stink getting on the candy he’ll have to throw it away. If we can get hold of it, all we gotta do is hold our noses...”

“I’m gonna be a cop when I grow up,” broke in the other. “Cops carry guns. They ain’t afraid if they do get shot. Boy, if I had had a gun I coulda said to that guy at the wheel before he turned the corner, I coulda said: ‘Raise ’em, Mister, or out spills your brains!’ That’s what I coulda...”

Chris Larsen abandoned all pretense of acting like a hard-boiled detective and sat down on the curb next to the boys. In his right hand were coins which he jingled.

His square face beamed with a disarming smile. “Kids shouldn’t eat candy that’s been contaminated from the fumes, of a stench bomb.”

“Yeah?” drawled the one who wished he was a cop.

“Just give me a chance,” promised the other. “I wouldn’t care if a elephant walked on it.”

“It was on my mind,” said Chris, opening the closed fist and staring at the coins, “to pass this change on to you boys. Did either of you see what happened over across the street?”

The one who wanted to be a cop said: “I’ll talk for both of us. I’m the leader. I’m Tommy. He’s Don. How much you gonna give us?”

Chris regarded the change speculatively. “All depends. There’s six bits here, but I can dig down in my other pocket if...”

Tommy looked wiser than his age. “If what, Mister?”

“If I thought you earned it. You see, Tommy, I heard you say you were going to be a cop when you grew up. That’s fine. Once I was a cop. Now I’m a detective.”

The eyes of both boys glowed. He had risen considerably in their estimation.

“Tell me, Tommy,” Chris resumed, “what you thought happened...”

“Thought me eye. I saw the whole thing, I tell you. It began back there at Ninth Street. That tan car was crowding the Buick. I heard the fenders scrape. They was lots of room. But the driver kept pushing over. Finally the Buick gets stuck behind that truck.”

Chris nodded. “You’re doing fine. Looks like I’ll have to dig down in my other pocket.”

Tommy continued. “When the Buick is jammed against the curb the tan car stops beside it. Then up rattles that Ford. I saw the driver lean back over the front seat and pretty soon the Ford begins to smoke. Gee, what a stink! I couldn’t see a thing after that.”

“Hear any voices, Tommy?”

“Naw. The engine of that Ford was making too much noise. But I heard the chopper...”

“Chopper?” Chris eyed his young informant sharply. “What do you know about; a chopper and how it sounds?”

“Easy, Mister. I heard plenty of ’em in the movies.”

“Check,” nodded Chris. “Then what happened?”

“Nothing for a couple minutes, then horns started to blow and cars began to move through the smoke. The tan car moved, too. It turned up Tenth Street towards the hills.”

“How many men were in it, Tommy?”

“I counted three and they was all on the front seat.”

“Was it traveling fast?”

“Naw, just crawling along.”

Chris looked at his watch. Nearly an hour had passed since he emerged from the restaurant following the stick-up. He put his watch back and dug down in his pants pocket for more change. This he evenly divided among the two boys.

“Thanks, Mister,” grinned Tommy.

“Keep me in sight,” said Chris. “I may want to talk to you later on.”

He went back across the street to see if anything new had developed.

II

Captain of detectives Judson scowled behind a black cigar as Chris Larsen entered headquarters. “Well,” he snapped.

Chris’s eyes were moody again. “I never saw such efficiency in my life. We’re all just a bunch of hicks when it comes to getting things done, when you compare us with those Federal men.”

Judson’s scowl deepened. “Is that all you’ve got to say?”

“The roads,” continued Chris, as if he hadn’t heard, “have been closed down tight for over an hour. And no arrests have been made. The system is good, but it isn’t working. Something’s screwy!”

“Chris, we’ve done everything. Every last stretch of state and county highway north, south, and east is cluttered up with searching patrols.”

“Sure,” said Chris. “Anybody would know that — especially the three killers in the tan sedan. They must have brains or they couldn’t have pulled that job so neat and got away without a trace. Give ’em credit, Captain. Hell, they knew they wouldn’t have a Chinaman’s chance of getting out of a town situated as Pedro is.” He rolled a cigarette.

After the second puff he said: “I wasn’t in charge of the investigation, Captain, so I kept my mouth shut.”

“Meaning?”

“You look off through these windows to the west, Captain, and you’ll see a hell of a lot of Pacific Ocean. Is there any reason for you or anybody else to think these smart gents might not use it in their get-away — say, after darkness?”

Captain Judson, looked as if he had swallowed his upper plate. He glared at Chris, and his face began to purple. He grabbed the receiver from the telephone. “Harbor Police,” he barked at the operator at the switchboard. His voice took on an edge as he rapped out curt orders over the line.

Abruptly he hung up, knowing that in a few minutes the Harbor Police and fast cruisers from the Coast Guard would go into action. But what would going into action mean? What would they look for? Could they be expected to stop every boat in the harbor channel? Judson continued to frown. He was far from happy.

“Well,” drawled Chris, “I guess I’ll start packing.”

Judson’s teeth almost cut his black cigar in two as they clamped down. “What do you mean — packing?”

“It’s no concern of mine if three poor Navy guys get bumped off. And what’s a half a million dollars? It’s Federal money. Let the Federals get it back.”

“You mean you’re quitting?”

“Quitting. I’m already out. You said so yourself. You said: ‘Chris, start packing.’ And that’s what I’m going to do, pronto.”

The eyes of Captain Judson gleamed cunningly. “This murder and stick-up is the biggest thing that’s hit Pedro since you smashed that Mannock snatcher mob from Frisco. And you talk about quitting. Make a crack like that again and I’ll break your jaw!”

Chris grinned. This was more like it. Judson was acting human again. “Well,” he asked, squinting at his superior.

Captain Judson hauled out an ancient timepiece and peered at it. “An hour and a half have passed since the stick-up, and no word’s come in regarding any pinch.”

“I figured the same thing over an hour ago. I also figured like I told you, that the mobsters who pulled this job were no amateurs. They belong to the new order of professionals. They had their get-away in the bag, and it didn’t mean hitting the state highways with their car when they knew the roads would be jammed with police. They know about radio control the same as we do.”

Judson rubbed his chin. “Then they must still be in Pedro.”

“Swell, Captain. That’s just where they are.”

“Chris, don’t get me sore. You’ve got something on your mind. You always have when a case like this breaks. I can tell you’re holding back on me from the way your jaw slacks away.”

“Whatever I know I’m taking to Special Agent McDonald. He’ll know what to do with it. You’ve got no authority over me, Captain. Right now I’m free as the air, and I’m on my way.”

“Listen, Chris, you aren’t turning the department down...”

“Nerts on the department. It turned me down. Let the Federal men make the capture and get the glory. I’m just a...” Something in the old captain’s eyes caused him to relent.

“I forgot for a minute, Captain, that you’d have to stay in this town after I’m gone. Now, listen. How long can you hold back on that transfer?”

“Till tonight. Not any longer.”

Chris nodded. “I’ll see what I can do for the San Pedro police department. But don’t expect too much. Stick close to the phone. And if you have to go out, fix it with the operator to locate you. I may need help in a hurry.”

He smiled heavily and left the room. All the old instincts were aroused. He went first to the laboratory on a lower floor. Billings, the keen-eyed chemist and ballistic expert in charge, looked up from a comparison microscope.

Chris took the cork from his pocket with the circlet of glass around it. Without a word he handed it to the chemist. Billings placed it under a strong light, held it dose to his nose, squinted and said: “Cork and glass probably from a thermos bottle. The glass was filled with a valerian preparation obtainable most anywheres.

“The preparation used, as far as I can guess without a chemical test, is most likely zinc valerate, a pure white powder, or valerianic acid composed of small, water-white crystals. Dissolved in a small quantity of ether with water added, either of these chemicals make a lingering, and altogether repulsive odor. You found this cork near...”

Chris nodded. “Beside the car where the phosphorous candles were ignited. The rotten smell kept people at a safe distance, which was what the stick-up men wanted.”

“Leave it here, Chris. I’ll have it gone over for prints.”

Again Chris nodded. “About the thermos bottle angle. You mean the glass bottle inside the metal shell?”

“Exactly. The glass is crystal thin. It would break easily.”

“Which means,” said Chris, “that a bomb like this couldn’t be carried around. You think they were made here in town?”

“My guess is — yes. Why?”

“Just a hunch. And I’m going to play it for what it’s worth.”

The chemist shrugged. “If you mean you’re going to search for the metal case of a particular thermos bottle, the odds will be against you. The idea is good, but not practical. Better wait till we get prints from the cork. Then we can check back through the fingerprint files.”

“Too slow,” Chris frowned. “I haven’t the time. See you later.”

III

Crossing the street after leaving the police building, he almost ran down the sturdy Tommy, who was waiting for him. As they walked up Sixth Street together, Chris said: “Still want to be a cop?”

“Sure. I will be, too, some day.”

“All right. Here’s how. But first, how many kids can you get hold of right away for a job of work?”

“My neighborhood is lousy with them. Maybe a dozen. Maybe more.”

“Good. Here’s what I want you to do for me.” Rapidly Chris outlined his plan. “And there’s two bits for every bottle brought to me, and five dollars for the lad that brings in the particular one I’m looking for. Clear?”

“Yes, sir. Where will you be...”

“In the restaurant near that candy store where I talked with you right after the stick-up. And listen, Tommy. There’s five dollars for you in this case, regardless. So don’t spend too much of your own time searching trash cans. Y’understand?”

Tommy saluted his superior gravely. “Check, Mister Detective.”

Chris looked at his watch. Two hours and a quarter had passed since he had emerged from the restaurant. He felt the need of a stimulant. Pocketing his watch, he went into the Harbor Café. Here he had two drinks of straight Scotch.

Then he walked rapidly to the restaurant where he always took his meals. “George,” he told the proprietor, “for reasons which wouldn’t be important to you I want the use of the banquet room upstairs.”

“Sure, Chris. It’s empty. Help yourself. The place is yours.”

“Thanks, George.” He rubbed the palms of his hands together. “Arrange it with the cashier. If a young lad comes in inquiring for me, route him up the stairs where I’ll be waiting for him.”

This preparation attended to, he went to the bank and got a pocketful of quarters, then returned to the restaurant.

In less than an hour Tommy came into the room. His face was red. Evidently he had been running. He grinned at Chris.

“I got twenty kids at work in the neighborhood. What they won’t find in those trash cans, Mister...”

“You can call me Chris, Tommy.”

“Gee, you’re swell, Chris. I like to work for you.” He fumbled awkwardly with his cap. “Some of the kids,” he began. “Well, I didn’t tell them who wants the thermos bottles. See? They think I want them. So it’s me who pays them. Maybe I ought to have some quarters in my pocket to show them just in case...”

“Tommy,” marveled Chris, handing the boy a handful of silver, “you have got what it takes to make a good cop. Never tell all you know or think you know. Now beat it.”

“Yes, sir.” Tommy waved a grimy hand and vanished down the stairs.

Chris pondered his next move as he rolled and lit a cigarette. “If Judson,” he mused, squinting at the glowing end, “knew what I was doing... oh, hell! He never did understand how intelligent some kids are.”

He jerked erect and crossed the room to a window. He could see the Navy car and the Ford behind it. The big truck was gone. The place was barricaded to keep traffic away, and a couple of camera men were working on tire prints.

Chris grinned wryly. “Those Federal dicks don’t overtook much. If anything’s there, they’ll find it and classify it. But there’s one thing they won’t find.” He was thinking of the cork with the circlet of glass fashioned around it.

After a time he went downstairs and called Captain Judson. “Any news from the front lines?” he asked.

“No,” growled Judson. “Where are you? What are you doing?”

“You’d be surprised,” said Chris. “Bye.” He hung up.

He went upstairs again and waited. Inaction grated on his nerves. He kept glancing at his watch. Minutes were slipping away. Five, ten, fifteen.

There was a clamor of sirens. Chris looked out the window. Half a dozen motorcycle cops were passing through town at top speed. The place was overcrowded with cops from outside districts.

Chris clenched his hands. Was he crazy to place so much faith in a bunch of young boys? He ought to be out himself. Back and forth he paced, smoking continuously.

He went to the window again. A taxi was drawing up to the curb. The driver opened the door, and out popped Tommy, dragging a burlap sack behind him. Gravely he paid the driver.

Chris Larsen’s jaw twitched. He had a grin on his face when Tommy staggered into the banquet room with the burlap sack of clanking metal.

“We had swell luck,” said Tommy. “Twelve thermos bottles in all. Two gallons, six quarters, and four pints. Eleven of them are in pretty good shape. But I got gypped on one of the pints.”

Chris had the bottles out of the sack and on the table. “Which one did you get gypped on?”

“This one,” explained Tommy. “I didn’t look at it close till after I paid Eddie Weaver two bits for it. Y’see, it’s got no insides and no cork. I’m sorry about this, Mister... Chris.”

“That’s okay, kid.” But Chris could feel his heart begin to hammer against his ribs. He swallowed heavily. Had the impossible happened? He could hardly believe his luck.

“Tommy,” he asked, softly, “where’d this bottle come from?”

IV

George Kelly was slim, his movements furtive. He had his coat off and was in his shirt sleeves. A leather holster was strapped around his chest and shoulder. In the holster the handle of an automatic was visible.

He stood near a window, peering through parted curtains at the back of the house. At the front window stood his brother Ernie, similarly dressed and armed. The dining room table was covered with odds and ends of food and an assortment of liquor bottles. A radio was blaring in one of the rooms halfway between the brothers.

George Kelly’s mouth thinned to an ugly slit. The alley in back of the house seemed to break out with a rash of kids. They were everywhere at once, snooping, pawing like a scourge of rats.

Kelly took out his automatic, examined it and returned it to its holster. He went back through the house and snapped off the radio.

“Seen anything of Mike?” he called out to Ernie.

“Mike’s okay. He’ll be back soon. What time is it?”

“One o’clock.”

George Kelly began to sweat “This town is getting hot, Ernie. I don’t like it.”

Ernie laughed thinly. “Hot me eye. It’s the highways that are hot. We’re safe here, Georgie, till night. The boat Mike went out to hire will be ready by then. By midnight we’ll be safe across the line into Mexico.”

George poured himself a drink, gulped it, and returned to the rear window. The kids had left the alley. All was quiet again. A half hour of silence was broken by Ernie’s rasping voice.

“C’mere, George!”

George Kelly raced through the rooms. Ernie pushed the drawn shade to one side. “Ever see that guy before?”

Muscles began to twitch in George Kelly’s neck. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I think I have. Ain’t he one of those harbor dicks Mike pointed out a couple of days ago?”

“Ahuh. He’s one of those dirty harbor dicks. But he didn’t look at the house, George. Maybe he just happens to be passing. What do you think?”

The lips of George Kelly began to whiten. He returned to the rear window. Five minutes elapsed. Then George Kelly saw the waterfront detective in the alley some distance away, and he knew that the moment he dreaded had come. He called to his brother.

“Ernie, that dick is coming down the alley. Slip on your coat. I’ll get behind the kitchen door. If he comes up the stairs, get him inside where we can finish him off.”

V

Chris Larsen studied the building from behind a pepper tree. It was an ordinary wooden structure with a garage beneath, and living quarters above. There was an outside stairway leading to a screen door. All the shades were drawn. A high fence surrounded it on three sides. Within the fence Chris could see the tops of shrubs and small citrus trees. There was a gate in the fence beside the driveway. The place was quiet and appeared deserted.

The detective looked cautiously down the alley. No one was in sight. He had started to turn around when something brushed against his back. Chris jerked sideways and swung at the thing behind him. The backhanded blow struck the boy in the cheek.

With a whimpering cry Tommy dropped to his knees.

Chris knelt beside him, torn between anger and pity. “Damn it, Tommy. I didn’t know you were behind me. Hurt?”

Tommy rubbed his jaw. Tears were in his eyes. “Naw,” he lied. “I didn’t mean to get so close to you. Honest. I was just watching.”

“I don’t want you to watch,” reproved Chris. “It’s dangerous. I sent you home once. You should have gone. This is no place for a kid. Now beat it, and don’t let me catch you around here again.”

Tommy scuttled back down the alley, his eyes aglow with excitement. But he didn’t go very far. Just far enough to get safely out of Larsen’s sight.

Chris felt for the reassuring bulge of the gun in his hip holster, took a long breath and went through the gate into the back yard.

His heavy feet clumped up the stairs. He rapped on the screen door. He heard feet cross the room. A thin-faced man wearing a blue coat came to the door. “What do you want?” he asked.

“State motor vehicle inspector,” said Chris. “I see you’ve got a car in the garage below. Mind if I inspect it? Routine stuff.”

“State inspector, eh? This is a new racket, fellow. Come on in. Have a drink, then we’ll go down to the garage.”

“Sure,” agreed Chris. “I hate to bother you with that drink...”

“No bother. Got lots of the stuff. Here,” picking up a bottle by the neck, “pour it yourself.”

The bottle started towards the detective’s head. Chris ducked. His fist curved up. Ernie Kelly crashed against the table. His hand streaked to his left armpit.

The door slammed behind Chris. A voice crackled: “No shooting, Ernie. Might be others outside. Beat him up!”

Chris backed against the wall. They moved on him together, lashing with the barrels of their automatics. Chris flung bunched knuckles into George’s face. Ernie came in on the flank. His automatic thudded against the detective’s shoulder.

The blow knocked the detective off balance. George tripped him. He fell to his knees. They flung themselves upon him. Metal gashed the detective’s cheek. He could feel the blood spurt out.

He lurched erect, carrying both men with him. He hit George Kelly in the face. Kelly shook off the blow and chopped at the detective’s head. Chris snapped his head aside and took the blow on his shoulder. Pain gripped in. Sheet lightning flicked in his eyes.

His shoulder bunched. His arm jerked back, then straightened with a piston-like movement. Thock! More pain. This time in the knuckles. George Kelly groaned, flung up both hands, and crashed to his back — knocked cold.

Instinct caused Chris to whirl. Ernie was backing away, half crouched. His gun flamed. Chris felt powder sting his cheeks. The bullet missed his jaw bone by a hair but clipped off a gory hunk of flesh.

He reached for his Colt But that movement was not going to help him. He realized it in a flash and flung himself down — out of the line of the burning lead chunks from Ernie’s chattering gun.

He hit his head on the corner of the table in going down. It almost knocked him out. He pushed himself to his knees with the palms of his hands. Ernie was still crouched close to the floor, a smoking gun in his fist. His eyes were wide and staring. He was waiting for Chris Larsen to die.

Sudden paralysis held Chris to the floor. Bullet must have struck a nerve. His throat and mouth were full of cotton. He tried to talk. But his voice was only a hoarse croak.

“Drop that gun!”

Ernie Kelly licked his lips. His eyes became opaque, murderous. He shoved it out ahead of him till it was within a foot of Larsen’s head.

Chris cuffed it aside and felt the scorch of powder against his palm. Breath made a rasping sound in his throat. The room began to revolve. Was he sick!

Again the gun drew down on its human target. Chris lunged. His fingers closed over Ernie’s wrist. He yanked savagely and struck with his free hand. He could feel bruised knuckles sink into the stringy cords of Kelly’s neck. Ernie choked and began to retch violently.

Hauling out his gun, Chris rapped him smartly over the right ear. Ernie collapsed. The detective staggered to his feet, holstered his gun and reached to his belt for steel bracelets. He snapped the wrists of the two brothers together, wiped the blood from his face, and started for the front door. He never reached it.

Mike Kelly, the third brother, came through, his gun belching a staccato fury. Chris flung the dining room table on its side and dropped behind it. A wood sliver stung his face. He raised his Colt. Mike nailed him then — through the forearm.

The Colt dropped to the floor and Chris Larsen knew that he had overplayed his hand. His cards had run out.

Mike Kelly came around the corner of the overturned table. His eyes were thin slits of hate. He kicked Chris’s gun across the room. He kicked the detective’s face. Brutality fairly drooled from his lips.

Chris spat. He attempted to get on his legs. Mike kicked him again. Chris moaned, shook his head and stubbornly tried a third time. Mike snarled and struck with the gun butt. Chris sank to the floor, his body quivering.

Mike went out to the back room. He saw his brothers on the floor cuffed together. He went back to Chris, rolled him over and searched for a bunch of keys. Found them and went back to release his brothers.

Hardly was the killer out of the room when Chris roused up again. His eyes opened. Pain spurred him to renewed efforts — pain and the will that made him feared along the waterfront. His fingers closed over a bottle. He had to use his scorched left hand. His right hung useless.

He looked for his gun. It was over against the wall. He looked out into the back room. Mike Kelly was bending over the handcuffed men, trying out keys. Chris started to crawl towards his gun. The floor creaked. Mike lifted his head as if listening. Chris hurled the bottle. Not at Mike Kelly, but into the front room where it crashed through a window. As Kelly straightened, Chris feigned unconsciousness. Mike brushed past him, not noticing the pretense, headed towards the front.

Again Chris roused up. It took every ounce of strength in his tortured body. He heard a noise outside on the back stairs. The screen door hinges made a rasping sound. The inner door opened and the head of a boy became visible around the edge of the door.

Chris called out huskily: “Tommy!”

Tommy saw him and started towards him, half-frightened but determined. The detective pointed to his gun. Tommy pounced upon it like a striking hawk. Chris got it fitted into his scorched left hand just as Mike Kelly came back into the room. The gun in Kelly’s hand spewed flame. But the Colt in Chris Larsen’s big paw erupted a split second faster. And the two shots blended as one.

Mike Kelly, pawing at a crimson chest, glared at the detective on the floor, then his eyes turned malevolently upon the boy crouched against the wall.

Venom dripped from his eyes. He swung his gun for the final act of violence that was part of his twisted mentality, and pointed it at the boy. Tommy did not flinch. His eyes turned pleadingly towards his big friend sprawled on the floor.

There was no other way out. Chris drilled Kelly, then — through the head. Kelly dropped without a sound, face downward, his gun arm extended, the weapon still gripped in his fingers.

From somewhere out of the depths of a tortured body, Chris found his voice. “Get to a phone, Tommy. Call police headquarters...”

“I... I already called them, Mister — Chris. They’re coming!”

Chris heard the near whine of a siren. He got to his feet, searched for whisky, found it and drank shakily. There was commotion outside and the pound of feet on both front and back stairs. Then the room was filled with cops and Special Agents.

Captain Judson looked at the cuffed men on the floor, then at Mike Kelly’s stiffening body. “Got all three of them, eh? Chris, you’re a glutton for punishment. If you weren’t so busted up, I’d break your jaw.” This was high praise. Chris liked it.

Special Agent McDonald came to where Chris was leaning against the wall. “Larsen,” he said, and there was admiration in his voice. “How did you do it?”

“Better check up first,” drawled Chris. “I haven’t had time.”

“We found the car in the garage below. Everything was in it. These men,” indicating the prisoners, “are the Kelly brothers. They were down on our list of public enemies. Stick-ups of big payrolls are their specialty. I should have recognized their technique, but I didn’t.”

“Never heard of them along the waterfront,” said Chris, trying vainly to roll a cigarette. “I pulled a fast one on you, McDonald. Didn’t realize what I was doing at the time.”

McDonald lit a cigarette of his own and gave it to the detective. “What’s this fast one you tell about?”

“I found a cork,” explained Chris, inhaling deeply. “There was a ring of glass around it. The remains of a stench bomb container. The glass looked as if it came from a thermos bottle. Wasn’t positive though. Figured that the bomb was constructed just before the stick-up. Since the metal part of the thermos bottle was no good once the inside was removed, it would be thrown away — in some trash can.”

“I still don’t...”

“Wait,” sighed Chris, patiently. “I hired Tommy and his friends. He’s the lad who phoned for help and got here in time to hand me my gun when I needed it badly. I don’t know how many kids were working for me in the search, but there were plenty.

“I also figured that since the sedan could not be traced, it must still be in the neighborhood of the stick-up — the safest place in the world. So I had these boys search all the trash cans in this part of town.

“I pulled twelve out of the grab-bag. One of them was without a glass bottle inside. Tommy knew where this case was found. He directed me to the spot. Then I sent him home — sent him home twice. But the kid wouldn’t go.”

“I was scared,” defended Tommy, “that something might happen to you.”

“That’s all,” finished Chris. “It was a crazy hunch on my part. And it just happened to work out.”

“I see,” nodded Special Agent McDonald. “You’ve been in this town a long time, Larsen. Sort of know your way around. Your superior, Captain Judson, tells me that you’re being transferred to...”

“Why bring up that chunk of bad news?” complained Chris.

“Because it concerns you personally. Larsen, in spite of everything I might say, the newshawks are going to give the Department of Justice credit for this pinch.”

The moodiness returned to the detective’s eyes. “That’s all right with me. I’ve done my duty. The hell with who gets the credit.”

“But if you won’t feel too badly about all this,” McDonald continued, “I think I can arrange it with certain high officials to keep you here in this port city where you belong. It isn’t much, but I’ll start pulling the strings right away.”

Chris Larsen started to grin, and he was still grinning when dizziness assailed him and he passed out cold in Captain Judson’s arms.