Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 105, No. 5, October 10, 1936

I

Jerry Sullivan parked his little sedan at the curb in, front of the Ajax Café, got but, heard his name called softly, back-tracked to a doorway to behold the lean form of Detective Clem Brower.

“Hello!” he exclaimed, and stuck, out a hand. “On the job again, are you — and back pounding pavements!”

“With both feet,” the detective responded. “Only one of ’em’s a bit game. Except for that I’m as good as new. Takes more’n a couple slugs to lay me away — you know that.”

Sullivan peered into Brower’s thin, lined face, noted the added stoop to his shoulders, and shook his head. “You ought to be camped by the fire with pipe and slippers. You don’t look so hot. Why not rest at home?”

“They’ve been trying to keep me there,” Brower, grumbled. “But I wouldn’t stay put. I’m not ready for the shelf yet. I’ve got work to do before I quit.”

Sullivan knew what he had in mind, but did not refer to it. Everybody in the district knew.

“Things have been pretty quiet since you were away,” he said. “I guess the bad boys are waiting for you to show up before touching off any more fireworks.”

“They can start right now,” the detective came back. “I’ll be waiting for ’em on the line... You see Lew Kibbler recently?”

Sullivan nodded, having anticipated that query. “He was asking about you just the other day.”

“Yeah? Know what that slick-haired mug had the gall to do? Sent me flowers at the hospital. The louse I Needn’t mention having seen me,” Brower added. “I want to run across him when I won’t be welcome. That’s what I need to close my book. That’s what got me out of bed.”

It was all of three months now since Brower had stopped a car — and two slugs. The lead had dropped him, but he emptied his revolver after the car as it sped away, got its license number, and the police were hot on the trail by the time the detective reached the hospital.

The car belonged to young Andy Reed, whose father ran a drug store in the neighborhood, and Andy was found dead back of the wheel, a few blocks from the shooting; but those who had been riding with him were gone.

There had been two men in the back seat, and Brower swore one of them was Lew Kibbler. The suspect was jugged before morning, and released before noon. There was nothing to hold him on except the detective’s suspicions and unsupported testimony.

That always had been the rub where Kibbler was concerned; the police couldn’t produce enough evidence, couldn’t pin anything on the wily crook. He never lacked an iron-clad, puncture-proof alibi. He was as smart as the mouthpiece that always defended him.

“Never been able to make out how Andy Reed came to be driving that punk,” Brower said; once the unpleasant subject was brought up. “A nice, respectable kid if there ever was one; and I’m knowing him and his family the past dozen years.”

The thing had puzzled Sullivan as well. There had been countless rumors, theories, contrary opinions. In the merry game of cops and robbers, the district took sides, expressed themselves freely. But Andy Reed was beyond talking, and those who might have told the facts kept mum. So the riddle hadn’t been solved.

“Andy’s folks won’t even see me,” the detective continued, aggrieved. “They’re bitter, and a lot of others are holding with them. Because one of my bullets got the kid, they’re calling it murder.

“Demanding the commissioner make an example of me. Claiming I’m too free with a gun.”

Some of the newspapers were riding Brower as well, Sullivan reflected, especially those antagonistic to the city administration.

“I’m thinking it’s dope that Kibbler’s running, along with his other rackets,” the detective pursued. “The Federal boys are snooping around, but they haven’t got anywhere. Maybe I’ll beat ’em to it. Around this section’s the hot spot. That’s why I’m gambling on Kibbler having a finger in it. If I had a better pair of legs... Hello, here’s Lew now.”

A car rolled up to the curb and parked. A tall, good-looking, well-groomed young man hopped out, flipped away a cigarette and walked briskly into the café. There was an arrogant swagger to his stride, an insolent air of cocksureness in the tilt of his gray fedora.

Brower looked after the man with a growl deep in his throat. “Hasn’t changed much,” he observed. “Business must still be good. But I see he’s driving the same old can.”

“Best make on the market for its price,” Sullivan declared. “I been driving them for years.”

“Thought Lew would get himself a fancy chariot before now. Something to match his snappy clothes and income. Maybe he’s laying off the splurge, saving his dough. Huh!” Brower spat disgustedly and started away. “I’ll be seeing you, Jerry. Don’t keep your ears plugged, if you know what I mean. I want to finish this job before it finishes me.”

Sullivan watched the detective limp off and felt a sudden twinge of pity for the man. A good egg, a square-shooter, Clem Brower; a loyal friend since the days he wore harness and chased the neighborhood boys for throwing stones. Getting on now, bucking an ugly game; a target for unjust criticism, but still full of fight and grimly resolute in his purpose.

Turning into the café, Sullivan hoisted himself to a tall stool and ordered his supper. It was late and the place was empty. The Ajax was a popular hangout. Nick Economos, the pot-bellied Greek who ran the establishment wasn’t wholly above reproach, but he served good grub and cheap.

Jerry Sullivan had a neat little business of his own, was getting out of the red, and not paying tribute as were some of the others he knew; hadn’t been approached, either. Sometimes he wondered at his luck; and sometimes he rather doubted the stories told him.

He knew that “protection” was one of Kibbler’s many rackets; knew a great many things that Brower might have liked to hear about. He couldn’t very well help knowing it from the loose talk that went on around the garage. Nobody seemed to care much what Sullivan heard. It was almost as if he was considered “inside” — which he wasn’t.

There had been more than one killing, more than one pineapple tossed in the neighborhood.

Sullivan practically had grown up with Lew Kibbler, but had drifted away after their brief school days. When he opened his garage, Kibbler gave him his business, paid promptly. He wasn’t turning customers away on moral grounds. He did the best work he could, took fair pay. The bulls never got a scrap of information out of him, and the opposition fared no better.

Jerry Sullivan was twenty-two, husky, red-headed and perpetually cheerful, in overalls and out of them. He knew automobiles and their ailments like the back Of his well-scrubbed, freckled hand. That hand was polishing off the last crumb of apple pie, when Kibbler appeared in a rear doorway and beckoned.

“Come inside,” Kibbler invited, as Sullivan strolled toward him. “This is Doc Fulton,” he introduced, nodding to a short, heavy-set man with glasses who was playing solitaire at the table in the back room. “Meet Jerry Sullivan, Doc. One of the kid friends. Operates the best little garage in the precinct.”

Kibbler grinned and thumped Sullivan’s shoulder. Fulton looked up absently and said he was pleased to meet the newcomer.

“You can do me a couple favors, Jerry,” Lew said. “To begin with I want you to tune up my bus tomorrow. And second, I’ve got a date at nine. Maybe you’ll wheel me and Doc over.”

Sullivan squinted through the smoke of his cigarette. “What about a taxi?” he inquired.

“No more than a mile from here,” the other continued, as if he had not heard. “Won’t take ten minutes.”

“I’ve got a date of my own,” Sullivan said. “Important.”

“Listen,” Kibbler came back. “It isn’t what you think. This is pure social.”

Sullivan shook his head. “Sorry. I’m due uptown right now.”

Kibbler’s white fingers drummed on the table and he leaned forward. “I been laying off you,” he said quietly. “You’re making a little money and things have been running smooth. It mightn’t last.”

Sullivan didn’t reply. He knew what the other was getting at. It didn’t make him feel any too good, but he tried to smile.

“Things happen around here,” Kibbler resumed. “Accidents. You might do me one favor in a lifetime. It’ll save you worrying.”

“Is that the way it stands?” Sullivan challenged.

“We’ll let it go at that.”

Kibbler talked calmly enough and his faint, smile was disarming, but there was menace in his tone, a threat that wasn’t to be laughed down. Sullivan seethed inwardly. The man expected him to do his bidding — or else. No need to ask what. An accident would play havoc in the shop. Everything he owned was there, all paid for now.

“You needn’t be seen leaving with me,” Kibbler said, “if that’s what’s fretting you. I hear old Brower’s back on the job again. I don’t want him on my tail even when I’m paying a social call. I’ll mosey out. You and Doc hop in my car, pick me up around the corner — Jackson’s place. In five mintues.”

He took his hat off the rack, adjusted it carefully, opened a side door and closed the door behind him. Sullivan sat stiffly in his chair, looking at Fulton, his mind spinning. The very abruptness of the thing left him sick at heart. Maybe this errand meant something, maybe not; but he didn’t like the approach. It smelled of trouble. Driving Kibbler wasn’t Sullivan’s idea of a pleasant evening. He was in a jam, all right, with trouble at both ends.

Suddenly he recalled the Andy Reed episode and his pulse quickened, Perhaps Red had been in a similar jam.

Doc Fulton swept up his cards and spoke. “Let’s get going.”

Without a word Sullivan got out of his chair and followed the man through the side door beyond which Kibbler had passed five minutes before? The dark areaway led onto the street.

II

Detective Brower was not in sight. Perhaps he had shadowed his quarry. Perhaps, Sullivan found himself thinking, if he told Kibbler that Brower was in the neighborhood, and looking for him, the trip might be called off.

As they crossed the walk a rash plan whipped into Sullivan’s mind. He stopped to light a cigarette, to give himself time to consider the perils the step entailed. Better keep his mouth shut about Brower. No use bringing up that subject just now. An hour or two later things might be different.

He picked up Kibbler at the appointed spot. The man got into the back seat with Fulton and promptly issued instructions. Brower wasn’t to be seen. Sullivan turned several corners and headed obediently for the river. No car appeared to be following them.

The night was misty, the scattered lights pale blobs of yellow. The streets along which they wound were deserted. The asphalt ended abruptly and the car began jolting over cobblestones. Sullivan picked his way carefully, his thoughts mutinous. There was no doubt in his mind now as to the nature of the excursion and the risks involved.

“Right here!” Kibbler called presently.

He slid out of the car almost before it stopped rolling. “Douse your glims, but keep your engine turning. I’ll be right back.”

Sullivan obeyed, watching the man glide off into the shadows. Fulton remained in the car, silent, apparently uninterested. The occasional cough of the idling engine and the remote toots of distant river boats, were the only sounds.

A light showed beyond in the murk, winked out quickly as if a door had been opened and closed. Tense, interminable minutes dragged. Then Kibbler reappeared. The package he carried was tossed on the floor of the car.

“Only one?” Fulton queried irritably.

“That’s all tonight. Delay somewhere.” Kibbler climbed in beside his companion, closed the car door softly. “On your way!” he snapped in Sullivan’s ear.

Sullivan flipped on the lights, eased in the clutch, profoundly grateful to be starting back. But as the car glided forward, a sudden voice issued from the shadows.

“Hold on!”

A stalwart copper appeared ahead of them. The gun in his hand showed plainly under the glowing headlights. Kibbler swore thickly. Sullivan’s fingers went cold on the wheel and on the gear shift as he brought the car to a stop.

He recognized the officer, and so must have Kibbler. It was Bob Hanson, a rookie no more than a month on the force. A big, raw-boned youngster in a new uniform. The three had played as kids together, their families neighbors on the same block.

Sullivan waited in an agony of suspense, his heart thudding.

The officer strode to the car, yanked open the tonneau door, peered at the men inside. It was too dark to distinguish faces, and Hanson fumbled for his flashlight. Sullivan did not turn.

He knew that the instant the torch flared, the package on the floor seen, the passengers recognized—

“What your doing around here?” Hanson demanded. He seemed to have trouble extricating his flashlight; he Was slow, undeniably nervous.

“It’s all right,” Kibbler responded quietly, his voice disguised. “Perfectly all right. Here’s my card. Take it!”

He was nearest the door, and fired twice as the light flashed into life. The gun must have been in his fist all the time. The reports were muffled, flat, like the thump of a hand on wood. The torch clattered to the ground.

The copper lurched with a gurgle, fell forward, his head striking Kibbler’s knee. The latter cursed, lifted his knee and the man slid back through the door. His shoulders struck the running board, hung there. Kibbler lowered a foot, gave the body a thrust. It rolled limply upon the cobblestones and lay there with white, upturned face. The torch continued to burn, throwing a finger of light across Hanson’s uncovered head.

“Get the hell out of here!” Kibbler snarled. The gun, still warm, was jammed into Sullivan’s neck. “Step on it!”

Sullivan needed no second urging, no spur to goad him into flight. The gears whined, the car fairly leaped ahead under a flood of gas. It skidded perilously around the first corner, straightened out and raced over the cobblestones.

“Okay,” Kibbler said, after they had covered several blocks and were on asphalt again. “Ease off a little.”

The gun was out of Sullivan’s neck now, but his hands were clammy, his face wet with perspiration. The thing that had happened was so monstrous, so revolting, that he shook from the horror of it. It showed up Kibbler for what he was: a vicious, cold-blooded killer who should burn for this night’s work.

“Pull up this side of the café,” Kibbler directed, as they came within sight of it. “Out of the light.”

Sullivan obeyed mechanically. Fulton climbed out, glanced warily up and down the street, took the package and ducked into the areaway. Kibbler alighted and moved up to where Terry sat behind the wheel.

“Sorry I had to throw lead,” he began. “But it had to be Hanson or curtains for us. Don’t start fretting, kid. The bull’s erased and we’re in the clear. Run along now and keep your date.”

But Sullivan locked the car and got out. “I’m in no hurry,” he said. “I could stand a drink.”

Kibbler smiled. “Sure. Come in and I’ll buy.”

They walked side by side along the dark areaway. Sullivan’s knees were shaky and his feet didn’t seem to track so well. Once he stumbled and fell against Kibbler; caught himself and went on.

“Say, you look like a ghost,” Kibbler declared, once they were in the deserted back room. “Pull yourself together!” He opened the door into the café, caught Nick’s attention and held up three fingers. Doc Fulton came down the stairs, empty-handed. Sullivan decided the man occupied one of the rooms above, had cached his package there.

Dope, Detective Brower had intimated, and it might have been, but Sullivan hadn’t paid much attention. It didn’t matter now. It was murder that concerned him, that Kibbler must answer for.

Nick waddled in with the drinks.

“Anybody been around?” Kibbler demanded.

“Nobody,” the proprietor answered. “It’s been quiet.”

Kibbler nodded approvingly. “Good. We’ve been parked here all evening. Remember that.”

“Since supper — playing cards,” Nick said and grinned.

Sullivan welcomed the drink; it warmed his stomach and quieted his jumpy nerves. He couldn’t get the picture of Hanson out of his mind, the last glimpse of him sprawled on the wet cobblestones with the light shining on his white face. Only yesterday the rookie had talked with him at the garage; had been so proud and happy in his new uniform. Now he was gone. It left Sullivan cold with rage, a sense of abject helplessness.

Kibbler looked himself over critically, and Fulton followed his example. Then they sat down at the table, the cards between them. Sullivan did not stir in his chair, did not speak. He watched the men and the cards they dealt, marveling at their calm.

Hell would be popping soon. Swift and relentless would be the vengeance of the police when one of their comrades had been cut down. Brower would be quick to suspect and act.

“Say!” Kibbler exploded presently. “Either pull yourself together or scram! You give me the jitters squatting there with a dead pan. Come out of it, kid! If some dick barges in—”

The rear door opened and a thin, putty-faced man, breathing hard, slid into the room.

“Listen, Lew!” he gulped. “Thought you’d want to know. That bull didn’t croak soon enough. He spilled the license number.”

Kibbler’s eyes narrowed. “Sure of that?”

“I was there listenin’,” the newcomer hurried on. “A watchman stumbles over the copper just after you pulls out. I’d heard the shots, suspected there’d been trouble, but I wasn’t showin’ myself. I let the watchman do the investigatin’ and call me. Another bull charges up, and I was right on the spot, playin’ dumb, when the plugged copper babbles. He kept repeatin’ the number over and over like a busted record. Then the ambulance rolls up and the doc works over the guy, but he’s gone then.”

“Funny, ain’t it?” Fulton said. “If the watchman had stayed away a couple more minutes the copper would have been cold and the police be wrestling with a mystery. It’s them little things that’s always upsetting apple-carts.”

The man in the doorway bobbed his head. “Sure; that’s right. Just a couple more minutes. Whose car was you usin’, Lew?”

Kibbler nodded casually toward Sullivan. “His.”

The three eyed Sullivan. He sat white and rigid, his heart thumping queerly, staring past the men. The thing that happened wasn’t wholly unexpected.

“A tough break, kid,” Kibbler said finally. “You’ll have to blow. You’ll have a good hour’s jump on the cops. Take them some time to check back on the tag.”

The informer, who must have been the man, from whom Kibbler secured the package, backed through the doorway and disappeared. Obviously he preferred to be elsewhere.

Kibbler eased a roll of bank notes from his pocket, skinned off several, tossed them upon the table. “This’ll help. Get out of town and lay low for a while. I’ll keep you posted.”

“I don’t want your money,” Sullivan said.

“Don’t be a sap! You’ll need some jack before this blows over. And better leave your bus.”

“I’m leaving it.”

Kibbler gathered up the currency. “If that damned watchman had held off snooping, you—”

“You need lessons in shooting,” Sullivan gibed. “You didn’t get Brower three months ago and you didn’t shut Hanson’s mouth soon enough tonight.”

“And I didn’t use my own bus either time,” Kibbler retorted. “I usually look far enough ahead.”

Sullivan’s voice remained steady. “One of these days somebody’s going to look just a little further ahead, Lew. And put this in your book. Sometimes a cat’s paw can scratch.”

“Aw, stop preaching!” Kibbler grimaced. “Start traveling. And don’t get any funny ideas in your head.” He got to his feet. “Understand? If you’re bagged, you’ll burn. Squealing won’t save your face or blast me. It’ll be your word against mine — and I’ll have a flock of witnesses. Put that in your book, sap!”

Sullivan rose slowly, from his chair, his fists knotted, undismayed by Kibbler’s threat.

“Got any more advice to offer?”

“What you stalling about?” Kibbler snarled. “I’m trying to help you and you stand there gabbing. Shake a leg out of here. You give me a pain in the neck!”

“Maybe this’ll cure it,” Sullivan responded.

III

His fist shot out, landed on Kibbler’s jaw. It was a solid blow, backed by a husky arm and toughened knuckles. The surprised victim grunted, thudded against the wall and slid to the floor. Fulton bounded halfway out of his chair, but prudently sank back again.

For a moment Sullivan contemplated the sprawled form, then strode across the room, opened the door and banged it behind him.

It was raining a little now, and the pavements glistened under the myriad street lights. Clem Brower would not be outside in this weather, Sullivan reflected, and promptly set a course for the detective’s nearby apartment.

In the back room of the Ajax Café, Kibbler slowly picked himself off the floor, spluttering oaths, a hand clapped to his bruised and swollen jaw.

Nick appeared. “W-what’s happened?” he stammered, alarmed by the picture that greeted him.

Between outbursts of profanity, Kibbler told him.

“And get a load of this,” he rasped, leveling a finger at the gaping proprietor. “If you’re quizzed, you; haven’t seen Jerry Sullivan since supper. Stick to that. He never was with us, and we haven’t been off the premises. That register?”

The Greek’s beady eyes filled with understanding. “Sure.”

“I’d have poked that bozo,” Fulton growled, “only I didn’t want to start any more rumpus; I might have laid him out, but we’d have had him on our hands, and that wouldn’t be so sweet if a dick blew in. The farther away he gets, the better.”

“He’s scared stiff and he’s going to travel fast,” Kibbler declared. “He’d better. He knows he can’t clear himself. The cops will find his car. They’ll find blood on the running board. I saw it there. And In slipped my rod under the seat, alter wiping off the fingerprints.”

“Neat work,” Fulton approved.

“Experts can tell from a bullet what gun it was shot from,” Kibbler added.

Fulton chuckled. “You’re plenty smart, Lew.”

“Well, I keep looking ahead all the time — just in case. Shoot us a couple drinks, Nick. And don’t forget what I told you.”

It was half an hour later that Detective Brower limped into the café pressed on into the back room where Kibbler and his companion were pegging a game of cribbage. Two hefty uniformed officers were with Him. The Ajax proprietor, slipping from behind his cash register, tailed at their heels.

The first thing the officers did was to fan both highly indignant card players. Neither was armed, which occasioned no surprise on the part of Brower and his somber henchman.

“What the hell’s the big idea?” Kibbler demanded, after the brisk ceremonies were over. “You all hot and bothered again?”

“Hot but not bothered,” the detective replied.

He squinted at Kibbler’s swollen jaw that had taken on a rich purple hue, and grinned a little.

“You lads been cooped here all evening, I suppose?”

“And still,” Kibbler snapped.

“Seen Jerry around?”

“Who?”

“Jerry Sullivan,” Brower repeated.

Kibbler looked surprised. “Haven’t seen him for a week.”

“He come in tonight to eat supper, hurry away,” Nick volunteered quickly. “About eight o’clock. He got off in his car.”

The detective nodded, as if that bit of testimony was highly gratifying. “I saw him come in about that time. Thought maybe he’d stuck around.”

“Not with us,” Fulton attested.

“That’s good,” Brower said. “Just wanted to be sure. I’d hate to see him running with you lads. Been together all evening?”

“All of it,” Kibbler answered. “Why? Something happen?”

“Something happened,” Brower said. “You took a little spin over to the East Side tonight, picked up a parcel and lugged it back here. And you put two slugs into Bob Hanson.”

“You’re cuckoo!”

“And since you and Doc have been together all evening,” Brower went on, “he must have been on the party. Just the pair of you.”

“We haven’t been off the premises,” Kibbler maintained. “Ask Nick.”

“Sure; that’s right,” the Greek corroborated. “The boys they—”

“You,” Brower shot at the Ajax proprietor, “clear out!”

Nick lifted his hands, shrugged and reluctantly vanished.

“The rookie cop’s dead,” Brower stated. “But he lived long enough to give us the license number of the car he tried to stop.”

“Yeah?” Kibbler smirked. “So what?”

“They make up a full house, Lew. Three aces and a pair of treys. Maybe it sounds familiar.”

A flicker of apprehension crossed Kibbler’s stony countenance and his eyes narrowed. “That’s my tag, all right, but—”

“I didn’t need to wait to have it checked,” Brower explained. “It’s been easy for me to remember. It’s been stamped on my mind for a long, long time. That’s why I’m on the job so quick.”

Kibbler glowered. “Rot! You’re either trying for a frame, or that cop pulled a boner. My bus has been parked out in front here since I landed before eight o’clock.”

The detective shook his head. “Wrong. It’s half a block up the street.”

“Up — the street?” Kibbler repeated blankly. “Why—”

He broke off short to flash a look at Doc Fulton, whose red face was beginning to show a gray pallor. The first prickling of an appalling truth filled him with panic.

“We’ve been inspecting the car,” Brower continued placidly. “We find blood on the running board and a rod tucked under the rear seat. A thirty-eight, with two cartridges exploded. When we get the slugs out of Hanson—”

“You... you’re crazy!” Kibbler exploded. “You’re trying to make a lousy frame. You can’t get away with it.”

“You can’t get away from it,” Brower retorted.

Kibbler dared not look again toward Fulton. He glowered at the detective and the two grim officers. Jerry Sullivan had tricked him! He remembered that his car, and Sullivan’s, were identical in make, model and color. The latter had stepped boldly into Kibbler’s parked machine and driven off. Fulton hadn’t suspected, nor had Kibbler himself when he climbed in later.

Brower went on speaking. “They were thirty-eight slugs that dropped me three months ago. I knew whose gun they came out of all right, but I couldn’t locate it. I’ve found it now. You winged me, and you rubbed out Andy Reed so he wouldn’t blab. You—”

“But I tell you — I tell you my car — I left it out front,” Kibbler choked. “If it’s moved — I didn’t know.”

Brower seemed to be considering a new angle. “You think some one might have borrowed your bus — pulled the job and hoped to slip you the blame?”

“Yes, that’s it!” Kibbler pounced upon that alluring suggestion. “That’s just what happened. The car wasn’t locked. I left the keys in the switch.”

“They’re gone now,” Brower said. “The car’s locked.”

“Locked?” Kibbler wet his lips. “Then... then the rat using my car must have taken the keys with him.”

“Somebody took ’em,” Brower agreed. “Maybe you’ve forgotten. About locking the car, I mean. We sort of do that automatically, you know,” he added, smiling. “Suppose we take a look.”

He stepped up and frisked the man, his nimble fingers dipping into Kibbler’s pockets. The latter submitted quietly.

“What’s this?” the detective queried. From an outside coat pocket he had extracted a narrow, worn leather case. Inside, on a ring, were two keys.

Kibbler fell back, goggling at the evidence that had been plucked from his pocket like a rabbit from, a magician’s hat.

“Look like ignition keys to me,” Brower observed complacently, scanning them. “They sure do. We’ll soon find out.”

Kibbler opened his mouth but no words came. Unmistakably they were his keys. And now, vividly, he recalled Jerry Sullivan walking beside him along the dark areaway, stumbling against him, pawing at his coat. Of course! A ruse to transfer the keys!

Even more vividly he recalled Sullivan’s pertinent comment: something about a cat’s paw scratching.

Hot, raging oaths tumbled from Kibbler’s lips. He shook from impotent fury. “It... it’s a frame!” he screamed, “A lousy frame, I tell you!”

“Never mind erupting,” Brower cut him short. “You’re sunk, Lew. You’ve had it coming a long, long time. Take the pair away,” he barked at the officers. “I’ll be along presently. Want to prowl Upstairs a bit first, rout out the parcel you boys cached.”