Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 6, April 16, 1938

Penny Pim — Accidental Detective by Richard L. Hobart

Maybe one unique specimen like Penny Pim is born in a million. And maybe it’s a good thing, too!

Penny Pim was startled by the sound that blasted at his eardrums from around the corner on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was a new sound to him, yet curiously enough, it deeply stirred something in his subconsciousness. The sound came again and Penny Pim struggled desperately in an effort to classify and allocate it.

It annoyed Penny Pim. Not the sound itself, of course, but his inability to marshal his thoughts concerning it. It chagrined him to discover in his mind a bit of vague information which was filed away in a disorderly manner.

Brrrrrrrrrr!

Again the sound came and Penny Pim’s face crinkled as his brain jostled similar and related sounds into memory cells. A fast train crossing rail joints? No, too rapid for that. A ball-peen hammer striking repeatedly upon a sheet of steel? That was closer. A series of torpedoes being exploded? No, not loud enough and the sounds were too regularly spaced.

Brrrrrr!

A yearning to catalogue the strange sound decided him. Momentarily, he erased all thoughts of Naomi Goode, someday to be Mrs. Pennington Pim. She would be waiting for him in front of the Potomac Theater, up near the White House. But a minute or two delay to see what was happening here could do no harm. At that, he could almost hear her say: “Pennington, you must be ill. You are three minutes late!”

Brrrrrr!

A terrible thought came to Penny Pim’s brain as he hesitated at the corner of the Commerce Building before turning into Pennsylvania Avenue. He knew that sound now — a machine gun! He had read of machine guns. He never before had heard the growl of the weapon. But it had to be that.

Long training forced Penny Pim to snap a glance at his strap watch. It was 6:32 P. M. Then he looked west on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Penny froze. His serious, pale blue eyes widened and his lower jaw, just a bit on the receding type, hung. A Coldstream Guards mustache, as blonde as his sparse hair, dangled on his upper lip.

He was too frightened to run. His knees were jelly beneath him. But his keen eyes took in everything. Each of the dozen or more sights was immediately indexed and cross-indexed — he used the Dewey Decimal system for filing all mental pictures — and then painstakingly, but with incredible speed, tucked away for future reference.

Penny Pim had a system. It wasn’t mnemonics or anything like that, and he didn’t recognize it as an occupational disease, which it was. For Penny Pim could no more keep from seeing things, both large and small, and storing them away in his memory than an adding machine operator can help getting the correct total of a string of figures if the right keys are pressed. Penny saw everything and retained those items he wished to remember.

Sometimes merely seeing and remembering things bored him, so then he would add the numbers on the automobile licenses that passed, or some other simple task like that. He could easily keep a running total of them, no matter how swiftly they sped by. At times, the result ran up into hundreds of millions.

The machine gun sputtered once more.

Then, with the speed of a battery of candid cameras with lens set at 1/300, Penny Pim’s amazing brain began to file away pictures. He ran forward, bent down over the figure on the sidewalk.

ITEM — Dead man’s face unrecognizable because of bullets. Tall, gray hair, white linen suit spotted with blood, cream-colored summer felt hat off to one side. Something shiny dangling from right wrist. (Filed in mental drawer G-0013, given over to gruesome sights.)

ITEM — Man’s leg from thigh down disappearing in rear end of black sedan. Dark blue trousers, white shoe. The man in hurry. Shoe either freshly polished or new as it was gleaming white. (Miscellaneous file P-2169 devoted to unknown but interesting people.)

ITEM — Black Pierce-Arrow sedan, 1936 model, just gathering speed. Virginia license plate, RH-1,016,538. Tag bent at lower left corner. Rear curtain down. Scratch at edge of right rear fender. (File A-11 where other mental pictures of fine automobiles were placed which he desired for his own.)

ITEM — Tires: new Goodyears, chain style tread. Spare a bit dark with road wear. Patent lock open on spare. No tire cover showing. Tires apparently a bit under-inflated.

ITEM — Car turned south off Pennsylvania Avenue, Probably headed for Potomac River bridge and a Virginia hideout.

ITEM — Taxicab driver, Mike Duffy, Cab Drivers’ License No. 490, first on scene after himself. Time: 6:33:09 P. M.

“Jeeze!” gasped Mike Duffy, cab driver, in wide-eyed excitement.

“I... er... believe he... he’s dead,” Penny Pim choked. It was the first time he had seen horrible death from so close a vantage point. As excited as he was, his twenty years of training at occupations necessitating careful observation did not fail him. He had seen times of stress before, always mental of course, and each time he had come through with flying colors, even if weak-kneed with excitement.

Penny Pim turned in some anger as he was unceremoniously jostled aside. He saw a park policeman, Shield #3192, take over. Other people pushed into the horrified circle. Cars stopped on the A venue, their occupants rushing to join the morbid and white-faced throng around the dead man.

A squad car with two policemen squealed to a stop. The uniformed men shoved the crowd back, leaving the first policeman, Penny Pim and Mike Duffy closest to the dead man.

“What’d you see, you?” the park policeman snapped at Mike Duffy.

“I... I ain’t seen nothin’, Officer. I had to put on brakes to keep from havin’ a red sedan run me down. Musta been the... the murder car. I... I turned the corner, sor, an’ seen the poor dead man. This gintleman,” Mike Duffy pointed at Penny Pim, “was bendin’ over the dead gintleman when I stopped at the curb, sor.”

The park policeman wheeled on Penny, eyed him with an expression on his face that showed he wasn’t pleased. “Well,” he snapped, “what did you see?” He said it in a way that told he didn’t expect a great deal in the way of helpful information.

“I... I don’t know who killed him, sir, but I’ve a description of the car.” Penny was a trifle embarrassed at the attention.

“You have?” The park policeman was frankly astonished. “Well, you’re the first witness I ever had with sense enough to look around. Say-y-y!” The park policeman pointed to the shiny thing dangling from the dead man’s right wrist. “This guy must’ve escaped from the law! He broke his handcuff, and—”

“Ridiculous!” Penny snorted. “The man must have been carrying a brief case of some kind with something important in it. Anyway, that half a handcuff on his wrist doesn’t look strong enough for police work, does it?”

“Did you see a brief case?” insisted the amazed policeman.

Penny admitted he hadn’t. “But I can easily reconstruct the scene and see one,” he said quietly. Penny had control of himself now. “If you’ll look closely you can see where the chain has been freshly cut with heavy wire pliers. People don’t chain things to their wrists unless they’re valuable. Therefore, what the man had in the brief case must have been worth a lot of money.”

“Pretty good figuring, mister!”

Penny swerved as the new voice came from behind him. The policeman stiffened, snapped a quick salute.

“Captain Linn, sir,” he said, respect and relief in his tone.

Penny Pim blinked. He had heard of Captain Linn, ranking detective of the Metropolitan Police of Washington. Linn was tall, had a thin and cynical face, keen gray eyes.

An ambulance gong clanged harshly. Under cover of the confusion of picking up the dead man, Penny Pim mopped perspiration from his high forehead. The handkerchief slipped from his hand, still a bit shaky, and fell to the spot on the sidewalk just occupied by the dead man. He shivered a bit as he retrieved it, gingerly folding and replacing it in his coat pocket.

“I think,” Detective Captain Linn said, “it might be a good thing if you came along with me to headquarters and told what happened. You apparently kept your eyes open.” His smile was a trifle taut.

Penny nodded. He didn’t know what he’d tell Naomi, but this was a case of necessity. Detective Linn ushered him into a squad car and it sircned its way clear of the machines pack-jamming the avenue.

“Well,” Captain Linn said pleasantly, a long blank of paper before him on the desk, “we’ll start by asking your name.”

“Pennington Pim, sir,” Penny said.

“Now,” Captain Linn went on, “what were you doing at the scene of murder?”

“I was walking from work. That’s at the Government Printing Office near the river, lower Fourteenth Street. I always walk as the exercise is beneficial.”

“No doubt,” Linn said drily, looking over Penny’s pale face, his soft body. “What do you do there?”

“I’m chief inspector. I look for errors in the printed currency. I’ve been there ten years. Before that I was in Commerce as head of the file room. I was in charge of all filing,” Penny said proudly. “Millions of filing compartments. Well — almost.” He grinned. “Actually, 978,023. I was sent to the Treasury Department to get the files in shape. Liked the work there and stayed on as an inspector.”

“Ever see the dead man before?”

“No, sir. I know where he works, though.”

“You know where he works!” shrilled the amazed detective. “How do you know where he works if you never saw him before?”

Penny Pim blushed. “W-well, I made a slight misstatement there, Mr. Linn. I should have said I know the work he’s engaged in.”

“And that is?” Linn snapped.

“He’s an engraver, sir. If you’d noticed his hands you would have seen they were discolored, the fingernails particularly. They weren’t the same color of a photographer’s fingernails who does his own developing, so I assumed he must be an engraver.”

“You’re pretty observant, aren’t you?”

Penny blushed again. “I... I’ve just been trained to look at things. My work, you know.” Penny smiled as if that explained everything. He smoothed his Coldstream Guards mustache with thumb and forefinger.

“You got the number of the license plate?”

“Oh, certainly. It was almost the first thing I did. But I’ll have to do a bit of figuring first.” He motioned to a pad of paper. “Mind putting down two numbers as I call them?”

Brow washboarded into a puzzled frown, Linn nodded.

“Put down 931,738,206,” Penny Pim instructed evenly.

Detective Captain Linn growled, but he put down the long figure in blunt numerals.

“Now,” Penny said thought fully, “take it from 932,754,744. The remainder will be the number of the car.”

“What are you handing me?” Linn snarled, his thin face blazing angrily. “I’ve a good notion to send you to St. Elizabeth’s. You’re completely nuts! What you need is a mental check-up.”

“I forgot to explain,” Penny apologized. “You see, when I walk down the street I add automobile license plates as a... a sort of pastime. The last license I added today brought the total to 931,738,206. After I saw the plate on the Pierce-Arrow I subconsciously added it to the total I already had and got 932,754,744. Naturally, the difference between the two numbers would be the license number of the Pierce-Arrow. Quite simple, eh? Er-er have you subtracted yet?”

“You mean you can carry figures like that in your head!” the detective shrilled, mouth hanging wide.

“Oh, certainly,” Penny shrugged. “That really is nothing. Wait until you try to add all the numbers on an hour’s run of twenty or fifty dollar hills. Now, that calls for concentration!”

Detective Linn busied himself with his subtraction, finally looked up. “I get the number as 1,016,538.”

“Exactly! Only it’s 1 dash 016 dash 538,” Penny explained. Then: “Now put Robin Hood in front of it.”

“Robin Hood!” Linn asked, frowning.

“I mean the initials RH,” Penny explained, again apologetically. “As it was a Pierce-Arrow and the initials in front of the license number were R and H, I put the name of Robin Hood down in my memory to tic up with the ‘Arrow’ part of the car’s make. That’s pure mnemonics and a rather amateurish method of memory.”

“I see,” Linn sneered. “Robin Hood shot arrows, eh?”

“Precisely, sir.” Penny beamed happily.

There was a knock at the door and Detective Linn pressed a button on his desk and a uniformed policeman came in. “We’ve found out who the dead man is, Cap’n,” he said. “It’s a guy by the name of Carveth. He’s an engraver, has a small plant in Baltimore. Used to be with the Bureau of Engraving here in Washington.”

“Engraver... engraver!” Linn flashed a look at Penny Pim, who nodded brightly. “Well, I’ll be damned!” Then, brusquely: “Take this number, Brophy, and see who owns it. It’s a Virginia license.” Linn tore the sheet from the stratch pad and handed it over. The policeman nodded and left the room. Linn rubbed his pointed chin, eyed Penny. “Let’s have the rest of it, Pim,” he snapped.

Penny nodded and talked while the detective put it down on the report. Across the room from him, Penny saw six rows of license tags on the wall. There were eight tags in each row, forty-eight in all, and each was from a different state. Penny assumed they were samples of the tags from every state in the union so that the Washington police could keep a check on the style and coloring used by each. Penny was always soothed by numbers, especially when they were neatly arranged in rows and readily seen. As he talked, Penny added the first row subconsiously. It took longer than ordinary, about ten seconds, because a part of his brain was talking to the detective about the murder.

He finished, sat back. Detective Linn nodded. “So you like to look at things, eh? Count ’em, too?” His eves went for the first time to the forty-eight license plates. There was a triumphant look on his face as he snapped his gaze back to Penny Pim.

In one flash of his eyes, consuming only four seconds of time, Penny added the final rows of numbers.

“Suppose,” suggested Linn, a wise smirk on his face, “you tell me the total of those license plates on the wall. I’ll give you five minutes, but no writing on paper!” He sat back, well pleased with himself.

Penny grinned to himself. He already had the correct total firmly fixed in his mind. But he wanted Detective Captain Linn to be more amazed than he would have been had the total been given at that instant. He nodded, flashed a glance up and down each row of figures, turned to the detective.

“The correct total is 5,121,952,” Penny said evenly.

“I’ll be—”

The door opened and Brophy came in. He shook his head. “No such number ever was issued in Virginia, sir.”

“I thought so,” Linn snarled. He swung on Penny Pim. “You’re just a show-off, Pim! You didn’t remember that plate number. You’re just one of those smart guys who forever run to the police when anything happens. You’re full of theories, know more about detective work than Sherlock Holmes. Just one of the mugs filled with melodrama who has to be in the limelight and get their names in the paper. Bah!” He savagely tore the end from a slim stogie, held a match to the tip. “I’ll show you up, you little punk!” He snapped up at Brophy. “Take down the numbers of those license plates and then add ’em on the machine in the outer office. I want this squirt made as sick as he looks.”

“But, sir,” Penny protested, “that is the number on the license tag! I couldn’t be wrong! I’ve never made mistakes with small numbers like these. It’s impossible—”

“Shut up!” roared Detective Linn, sitting back in his chair. He snapped: “Just because you happened to guess Carveth’s occupation doesn’t mean you’re not a show-off.” He smoked in silence while the puzzled Brophy laboriously took down the numbers, walked from the room. In five minutes he was back, excitement showing on his face. He handed the long strip from the adding machine to his superior.

Detective Captain Linn looked at the total, compared it with the one he had jotted down on the pad. He frowned, blinked, let ash from the stogie dribble to his coat without notice. He looked across at Penny Pim, said slowly:

“You’re right, by thunder! The total is 5,121,952!”

Penny Pim nodded, vastly pleased. “I can give you the total of each row, sir, or call out the individual numbers if you wish without looking. That isn’t difficult at all. It should prove I didn’t make a mistake on the license number of that black sedan.”

“Maybe... maybe,” Linn nodded, but there was a hard look now in his keen eyes. He looked up at Brophy. “You got something to tell me?”

“Yes, sir,” Brophy said. He stepped close to Penny, said: “The boys’ve been questioning that cab driver, Mike Duffy. First thing he said was the murder car was red, a Caddie sedan. Then he saw something on the ground after the dead man, this Carveth, was moved, and—”

“Yeah, Brophy, I know,” Detective Linn said from lips that did not move. “I was waiting to see if this Pim would come clean.” He glared at Penny. “I saw you wipe perspiration from your face at the scene of the murder, Pim, saw you accidentally—” he emphasized the word — “drop that handkerchief over something on the ground. That something under the dead man was a crumpled piece of paper! You tried to hide it. You gathered it in your handkerchief and put it in your coat pocket! You’re good at adding, Pim, so add that up for me! It’s all a stall to try and throw the police off the scent. You got your facts too good, my buckaroo! You’re in with the gang that bumped Carveth! Why, I don’t yet know.” Linn got to his feet. “Pim, I arrest you as an accessory to the murder of Carveth I Give me that handkerchief in your coat pocket!”

Face pale, mouth wide and blonde little Coldstream Guards mustache trembling, Penny pulled the handkerchief from his coat pocket. First of all, he knew the sedan was black. Yes, he knew there was something in the handkerchief, all right, but he’d wanted to see it first. On the spur of the moment Penny had concealed evidence from the police. He didn’t know why he had done it. He only knew some strange reason made him want to run down the murderers of the man who had lain bleeding at his feet.

And now he was jailed for murder! What would Naomi think? She’d never speak to him again. And tonight, a beautiful proposal of marriage filed word for word in Drawer M-A 1 in his mind, he had intended asking her that all important question.

He put a white hand to his breast, felt his thumping heart. He always had led a quiet and sedentary life. The excitement of the machine-gunning, the kaleidoscopic sequence of events, his misjudged motive with the note — all contributed to the weak feeling that filled him. He felt as if he was about to faint.

“Ah-ha!”

Detective Captain Linn held a square of rumpled paper in his hand, waved it triumphantly before Penny’s startled eyes.

“Ah-haaaa!” repeated the detective, face Hushed. “You did have something to do with this murder, Pim! Listen to this, Brophy.” Linn read slowly:

“No name signed to it,” Linn snapped, “but I’ll guarantee to sweat that out of you!” He stepped forward, caught Penny by the shoulder. “Pennington Pim,” he rasped, “I arrest you for murder—” He stopped, stared in amazement at his suspect.

Penny Pim had fainted.

“Naomi, I love you! I want you to be my wife, to share my life. I have money saved up, own a lot over in Alexandria where we can have a little cottage. I only make a small amount each year, dearest Naomi, but we can live well on it. I love you, my dear Naomi—”

The proposal of marriage Penny had painstakingly composed and written down so as to be more readily remembered came easily from his lips. He knew every word of it, knew where each comma, semi-colon and period was placed. He often recited it backwards to himself so as to prove he knew it perfectly. It went like this:

“Naomi dear my, you love I. It on well live can we but, Naomi dearest, year each amount small a make only I.”

It was childishly simple.

Penny Pim opened his eyes, saw a laughing guard looking through the cell bars at him. Raucous sounds came from either side up and down the cell block. The sounds came from prisoners watching him wake to consciousness. Penny blushed. He knew he’d been proposing to Naomi in his dreams. That he was proposing aloud to the edification of a group of bums surrounding his cell was apparent — and embarrassing.

“Thinkin’ of the girl friend?” sneered the guard. “You’d better shut up. My boarders don’t like too much noise.” His laugh was echoed by the frowsy prisoners.

Penny looked at his wrist watch. He groaned. He knew Naomi long ago had left for her apartment. And he was in jail! He had tried to aid the police. He couldn’t help it if he saw things, remembered them. It was part of his makeup. His job depended upon his keen eyes and a prodigious memory. And he was chief inspector.

When he was with the Department of Commerce he had kept hundreds of thousands of things in his incredible brain. Now, with the Treasury, he must scrutinize every bill coming from the tiers of presses, immediately recognize a hairline smudge, a microscopic blob of misplaced ink or hundreds of other minute errors. And while doing that he had learned to add the serial numbers on the bills. It made the hours pass quickly, gave his brain as well as his eyes something to do.

Another thing Penny Pim knew was hot money. There were thousand’s of bills throughout the country listed as “hot.” These bills had been stolen or paid out as ransom kidnaping cases, and the numbers recorded. But often the money got back into circulation because bank clerks would fail to note the numbers. The bills would become worn, eventually to return to Washington for redemption and to be destroyed. It was also Penny’s job to look over this worn and tattered currency to see if any of the numbers were “hot.” If hot money was found then it was traced back to the bank sending it in and an effort made by the G-men or T-men to see if the crooks were still in that locality. Penny Pim had helped capture several criminals in that manner for he had memorized all the vast series of numbers on the hot bank notes. It was an exhilarating task for his peculiar type of brain.

Penny looked up as he heard footsteps coming along the corridor. He saw Detective Captain Linn motion to the jailer, heard keys jangle. The next instant the door swung wide.

“I don’t know how I ever can apologize, Mr. Pim,” Detective Linn said seriously. “I made a mistake, that’s all. I’ve been looking you up, have checked your superiors with the Treasury. By checking the time you left the printing office against a normal rate of walking, I find you could not possibly have been in with that gang. Everything you’ve said is true. You’re free, Mr. Pim.” He grinned.

“All right,” Penny grated out. He was very angry and the laughter of the jailer and the prisoners a while before hadn’t helped him. “It’s easy enough for you to say that. But what about my... my girl friend who waited for me? How about her? She’s mad now, probably went off with... with—” Penny was making it harder than he knew it was, “with some other fellow! And all on account of you stupid police just as set down in that note!”

“Yeah,” Linn snapped, angry now. “I still don’t understand that note. It’s got your name in it twice. You should feel damn’ lucky to get off at all. You’re still under suspicion, my buckaroo! Now beat it before I change my mind.”

“I don’t know anything about that note, Linn,” Penny snapped, pale face taut. “I... I did see it on the ground, wondered why you or that park policeman didn’t see it first. I... I wanted to help solve the case, pull the note out here at headquarters and show it to you. I... I suppose it looked like I was in with the gang for you saw the note after all. And the color of the sedan was black, not red like that dumb cab driver says! Now that you’ve treated me as you have I’ll just let you work the rest out for yourself. I’m pretty sure I could lead you right to the murderers, but now I’ll let you find them!”

Penny turned sharply on his heel, walked out. Strangely, his brain now was clear, was racing along with blinding speed. He knew exactly what procedure he was going through to find the murderers of Carveth!

Two blocks down the street he saw a pay station in a cigar store. He walked in, got long distance operator. A minute later he was talking to the warden of the Virginia State Prison.

“I... er... I’m calling for Detective Captain Linn, Washington Metropolitan Police,” Penny lied easily. Then: “I believe you make all the automobile license tags in your state? I thought so. Give me the name of the last man released from the stamping department. Umrnmm. Home in Alexandria, eh? Kiki Mawson, eh? Owned a garage there, did he? Thanks a lot, warden.” Penny hung up.

His first deduction had turned out splendidly. He hadn’t been fooled by that license tag. It was of authentic manufacture, he had been sure. He also knew Virginia state convicts made the tags. It was as easy as adding ten six-place figures together. That tag must have been manufactured by a convict in the state stamping factory, smuggled out to the gang! And it was natural to suppose the last man leaving the factory was the one responsible.

The police could look up the number of that tag as much as they pleased; it wasn’t even on the records. Yet it would never arouse suspicion as it was authentic down to the last detail, was made like all the rest of the Virginia tags, on state machinery and with the real dies! It was pretty clever, Penny thought.

That the last man released from prison who worked in the stamping department lived in Alexandria, just across the river from Washington, was a stroke of luck. His name was Kiki Mawson and he had been paroled two weeks before, had reported each Saturday night to Alexandria police as required. And Kiki Mawson was a mechanic, had owned a garage when he was caught receiving property. He also had been mixed up with a wire-tapping gang operating out of Pimlico, the race track—

Pimlico — PIM!

That’s where that name of his had come in! Penny saw the words of the note as if they were in front of him. “Got word from Pim.” Also further along in the note: “Don’t worry about Pim.” The note referred to some person the writer had met in Pimlico! The name of the track had merely been abbreviated into “Pim.”

Penny Pim grinned to himself as the taxicab turned right off the bridge on the far side of the Potomac, headed for the river drive leading to Alexandria. Penny paid off the driver at King Street, walked to the drug store on the corner and made for the phone booth.

He was taking a chance on the Southern R.R. freight office being open, and it was. In a minute he had the night freight agent on the telephone. “Who’s talking?” Penny asked softly.

“This is Holland, night freight agent, sir.”

“Oh, yes, Holland,” Penny said, now making his voice gruff. “By the way, how many pieces of sheet steel were in that last shipment I got from you?”

“Just a minute, sir. This is Mr. Rawson, isn’t it?”

“No. Name’s Mawson,” Penny corrected with an excited grin.

“I meant Mawson,” the freight agent said. There was a pause for a minute and Penny dimly heard the rustle of papers. Then: “There were eighteen pieces, Mr. Mawson. You got all of them?”

“Yes,” Penny said quickly, “but there seems to be some mistake. I got a bill for them this afternoon, but the address was wrong. By the way, what address have you on the waybill?”

“At the garage, sir. Let’s see. The address is Gem Garage. 8418 Ort Mill Road. That’s you, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Penny said, voice shrill with excitement. “That’s all.” He replaced the receiver on the hook, walked from the booth.

Ten minutes later, behind the wheel of a Drive-It-Yourself flivver, Penny Pim was headed toward the Ort Mill Road. According to the way the numbers ran the garage must be several miles out. Penny guessed it was a combination soft drink spot and garage, possibly with living quarters attached.

Penny came to the crest of a hill, stopped the car. Facing him at a turn in the road below was a cluster of lights. He took a knife with a long blade from h is pocket, got t o the road and walked to the rear of the car. After a minute of sawing with the blade he managed to get the point through the easing. There was a sharp hissing of air. Penny got back into the car, released the brakes and coasted toward the cluster of lights in the little valley and the electric sign which read Gem Garage.

There were three men in the room. Two of them looked at the third a man wearing a cab driver’s badge on his shirt. The number was #490.

“Go ahead, Mike,” one of the men prompted.

“Well, like I said, Mawson,” Mike Duffy began, “I filled the police full of wrong info just like you told me to do. I told ’em the car that almost runs me down is red and they believe that. I says it was a Super-8 Caddie instead of a Pierce-Arrow and that it has a District license. Gunner,” he nodded to a youth with burning black eyes sitting opposite him, “happens to drop the note from his pocket, I suppose, because when they picks up the stiff I sees it.

“Then this guy, Pim’s his name, who comes running up makes like he was wiping sweat. He drops his handkerchief and picks up the note. Pim is the sort who likes to shoot off his face, knows everything. I knew he’d tell the coppers about the note. Well, I goes on down to headquarters, as was planned, and tells the dicks about seeing this Pim palm the note. I tells it before he does and it sure gets him in bad.

“The door is open four-five times and I overhears him telling everything he knows. And, Mawson, it was puhlenty! That guy sure uses his eyes. Rut when I tells ’em Pim picks up the note and was hidin’ it they locks him up. He’ll be in there from now on. They’ll throw the key away. I—”

“Wait a minute,” Mawson interrupted. Kiki Mawson was a big man, had a bald head, small eyes set close together in a prison-gray, puffy face, a cruel mouth. “You say this guy’s name is Pim?”

“Yeah,” Duffy nodded, “something Pim. Didn’t get his first name, but his last name is Pim.”

“I’ll be damned!” Mawson laughed. “That note has the word ‘Pim’ in it twice! Only it refers to Gunner here.” Mawson jerked his thumb at the little man with the burning eyes. “It was from Hugon and he’s referring to the man from Pimlico, Gunner Wry! Hugon, by the way, is due here tonight with the jack. We picked Gunner up down in front of the Government Printing Office on lower 14th Street. I let him see the note and he must’ve stuck it in his pocket, then dropped it when he made a dash for the brief case after Tommy-gunning Carveth. Jeeze,” his laugh was loud, “it’s a good thing he did drop it! This Pim punk will take the rap for us!”

“But he got all the dope on the car, this time, the fact that Carveth had a brief case chained to his wrist!” Duffy shrilled.

“Yeah, but that note’ll put him in the chair, Mike,” Mawson laughed. He lit a cigarette.

“Maybe so,” Duffy worried. “But he saw the kind of tires, the bent place in the fender, knew the car was armored—”

“How’d he know that?” Mawson asked incredulously.

“Well, he saw it was mighty low on the rubber and guessed the rest, I suppose. Those steel plates weigh down on the tires pretty heavy, you know. Hell, he even saw Gunner’s new shoes!”

“Uh?” Gunner looked up, then at his spotless shoes.

Mawson laughed. “Don’t you worry, Gunner. Mr. Pim will have nice boarding for a long time. What if this Pim did see you? That was a good guess about the car being armored, though. He’s a smart guy at that.” Mawson nodded.

There was a knock at the door and Mawson growled: “Come in,” and moved his hand near his left armpit. A man dressed in dirty coveralls entered the room. He was short, heavy, had a tanned face with an oil smudge across the chin. Mawson grinned. “Oh, it’s you, Scotty. How’s the gas and oil business?”

“Rotten,” Scotty said, face in a frown. “I gotta guy out there in a push-it-yourself who’s got a flat. Looks like the damn tire’s been sliced with a knife. Looks phoney to me. Maybe he’s—”

“You guys got a case of the heebie-jeebies,” Mawson jibed. “Go ahead and fix the tire and get him out of the way. You won’t have to play garage-man after tonight, Scotty. But what’s the guy doing now? Suppose he’d followed you in here?”

“This guy!” Scotty laughed. “Don’t be silly. He ain’t got sense enough for that. I left him out there with a sody pop and he’s—”

The telephone jangled and Mawson reached for it.

“Yeah, Mawson talking.” he said. He listened for a few seconds, said: “Naw, I didn’t phone you about steel plates. Sure, I got my shipment the other day. Oh, the second shipment’s in, eh? What the hell! Don’t you think I’d know if I called you? Oh. Oh-h-hh, I see—” Mawson slowly cradled the receiver. His face was pale, taut. His hand flipped to his left armpit and an automatic showed. When he spoke the words were low but the others could not mistake the urgency in them.

“It was the freight agent in Alexandria. Said when I talked to him a while ago he forgot to tell me the second shipment of plates for the other armored car was in. And I didn’t phone him! That shows someone’s on the trail! The coppers may be surrounding us right now!”

“Maybe this little guy with the yellow mustache is spying things out, Mawson,” Scotty said excitedly. He felt of his pocket. “Hell, I left my gat in the drawer of the desk. It was so heavy—”

“Yellow mustache!” Mike Duffy shrilled, face strained. “Has he got yellow hair, big forehead—”

“That’s the guy!” Scotty yelled. He turned toward the door.

“Golly, how’d he get outta jail?” Duffy shrilled.

“Wait!” The command snarled from Mawson. He held up his hand, motioned the others to gather around. “Listen, you guys. Scotty, you go back and stall with that puncture. We’ll slip around back and all jump him at once. Then we’ll take that baby for a nice buggy ride—”

“I don’t think so, Mawson!?”

Penny Pim stood in the doorway! In his hand was an automatic which he held in a steady grip.

“Cripes, my gun!” Scotty snarled.

“It’d be too bad to get killed with your own gun,” Penny said with a hard smile.

It was all incredible to Penny Pim. He couldn’t quite understand it. Here he was holding up a gang of desperate criminals and he was as cool and collected as if he were inspecting ten-dollar bills as they came from the presses. But he was angry. Detective Linn had made him that way with his derisive laughter, his sneers and jibes.

“How the hell did you find us?” Mawson asked, pale face working. “I... I thought everything was covered.”

“Just a matter of thinking things out and keeping my eyes open,” Penny said modestly. He saw Duffy for the first time. “Ah, Duffy, eh? I had more than an idea you were mixed up in this. I saw you eyeing that note and ready to pick it up. I managed to beat you to it. Then, at headquarters, you saw a chance to frame me because my name was used in the note. Out in the garage I saw the black sedan and the counterfeit license tag is exactly as I gave it to Linn.” He looked at Mawson. “Imagine the note referred to someone coming from Pimlico.”

“Yeah, Gunner’s from Pimlico,” Mawson snarled. “It was pretty clever figuring that out and I don’t see how you found me.”

“Really rather simple, Mawson, and I’ll tell you just to show how all crooks are caught.” Penny explained about the automobile license and his deduction that it had been made by a convict working in the state stamping factory. “Now all the items of which I made mental pictures check.” His grin was triumphant. “Even to the killer’s new shoes!”

“Jeeze!” Mawson looked at Penny and there was awe in his close-set eyes. “I oughta have a punk like you tied up with me. I sure could make a place for a guy with your head!”

“You’ll do the tying up, Mawson,” Penny said sternly. “Start in right now with Mike Duffy! There’s some wire over there in the corner. Duffy, put your hands behind you. And, Mawson,” there was no mistaking Penny’s meaning, “don’t make the mistake of doing a bad job of it.”

“Damn, caught by a punk!” Mawson groaned as he tied up the taxi driver and turned toward the others.

“I imagine it’s plates for a ten- or twenty-dollar bill that’s behind all this,” Penny offered in a casual tone.

“Well, you seem to know everything so I might as well tell you,” Mawson growled, busy with the wire. “Yeah, a twenty. Carveth, the engraver, made ’em. They’re photo-engraved with the blurry lines tooled out by hand. Carveth used to be in the Bureau of Engraving.”

“And your machine-gunner killed him so there’d be one less to divide with,” Penny stated. Then: “You’re going to jail, Mawson, and I’m doing my best to see that all of you get the chair! And at the same time I’m showing up that hick of a detective, Linn! Yes, Mawson, you and the others will burn—”

“No, Mr. Big Talk, you’re going to burn unless you drop that gat!”

Penny Pim froze. Something very hard was jamming into his backbone, pressing inexorably and menacingly. A gun!

“Hugon!” Mawson cried excitedly.

“Hugon!” Mawson again yelled relievedly. “Boy, am I glad to see you! Wait, I’ll get this punk’s gun.”

He snatched the gun from Penny’s lax hand and pocketed it. Then, close-set eyes wild with rage, gross face flushed, he slammed out with his fist. The hard knuckles connected with Penny’s mouth, cut both lips. He tasted salty blood on his tongue and his knees began to melt beneath him. He groped out with both hands in an effort to catch hold of something. Again Mawson’s knuckles slammed his face and he fell backward into merciful unconsciousness.

Penny opened his eyes to find his head was pounding like the automatic stamping machine that turned out half-dollars as if they were so many links of sausage. His shoulders ached; in fact, he felt bad all over. The men Mawson bound had been released and were glaring at him with cruel eyes from across the room.

He didn’t like playing at detective. He wished he hadn’t been so short with Detective Captain Linn. Right at the moment he would have welcomed Linn with open arms — no, that would take a lot of physical effort and he ached in every joint, felt as if many bones were broken.

A kick from Mawson’s big foot brought Penny back to life. He sat up, wondered what the big red things were that he could see just by glancing downward. He decided after a moment that the red things were his swollen lips and the blood clotted on his Coldstream Guards mustache. He also decided he was in somewhat of a mess.

A man he had not seen before was eyeing him keenly. Penny decided it must be Hugon. The man nodded. “Yeah, he’s a punk, all right. Better get rid of him — quick!”

Hugon was a tall man, with red hair and strangely light blue eyes. He wore a perpetual frown on his face, and his mouth was so thin-lipped as to appear only a gash across his narrow face. He turned to Mawson, tapped a brief case he carried in his hand.

“Here’s the fifty grand, Mawson. What you told me of this punk makes me want to dose the deal in a hurry. He’s smart and the way he worked things out is better than the lousy cops could’ve done. Maybe he found some way to tip ’em off. By the way, I brought the jack in fives, tens and twenties. My collections in New York have been pretty good the past few weeks so I got the jack in small bills and saved it for you. That’s better than big money on a deal like this and you can get rid of it quicker. Suppose you count it up, give me the two sets of plates for the phony twenties and I’ll shove off.”

“That’s the stuff,” Mawson nodded. “We’re blowing too. Miami on the five-ten plane in the morning. I’ve already reserved seats and was just waiting for you with the jack before sending Scotty for tickets.”

Penny watched Mawson as he counted the stacks of neatly banded currency. He saw the plates on the table. He got slowly to his feet. Plates for printing currency were something he knew a lot about. He moved closer, looked them over with a critically appraising eye. They were masterpieces, all right. He saw they were a photoengraved job hut the blurry lines had been hand tooled so as to make them sharp.

They would pass an expert’s eye — almost.

“Well, punk, what do you think of ’em?” Mawson rasped.

“Only fair,” Penny managed to say through his split lips.

“Whatcha mean?” Hugon snarled, thin gash of a mouth straight across his face. He looked at Mawson. “You trying to put something over, Mawson? The deal was that the four plates were to be perfect.”

Penny Pim laughed, his pale blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “If they’re perfect why should he be selling them? Why shouldn’t he keep them and turn out the counterfeit twenties himself? Ever think of that?”

“Say!” Hugon was instantly suspicious. He looked keenly at Penny. “From what Mawson says you’re a real expert on this kind of stuff. Suppose you look ’em over. I brought a magnifying glass along so’s to look at the plates myself. You take it.” He reached into his pocket and handed over a large reading glass.

Penny took the glass and studied the plates for long minutes. They were good, very good, but he found a dozen minute places where mistakes had been made. A part of a decorative wreath that had stems shorter than the original, thirteen and a half lines in one place instead of fourteen long ones. Little things, yes, but glaring errors when the T-men and G-men got on the trail.

“The best way to do, Hugon,” Penny said, “is to compare the plates with the real money here.” He motioned to the stack of currency Hugon had brought in the brief case.

“Go ahead,” Hugon snapped.

Penny reached for a stack of currency, riffled it through his fingers until he came to the twenty dollar bank notes. Suddenly he was very excited and his fingers trembled a bit. As he handled the worn bills a vague plan was taking shape behind his bulging forehead. He came to a bill, nodded for Hugon to look through the glass.

“Look at this corner decoration on the original, Hugon, and then at the plates. See how thick the lines are on the plate? Too thick. A Fed would spot them at once. Let me show you some more bad engraving. I can best point them out by using some of these fives and tens.” He reached for a stack of them.

Penny arranged a number of the bills, one on top of the other. As he did so he pointed out where errors occurred on the plates. “Even though these are fives and tens, Hugon, they’re engraved just like the twenties. Here is the same type of line and corner arrangement on this ten as you’ll find on the twenty. See where the plate is wrong? You’d have a Fed on your trail—”

“That’s enough, punks!”

Penny Pim and Hugon looked up in startled surprise. Across the room Mawson stood tense with his three men. All had guns ready.

“Why... why, what’s this?” Hugon shrilled, red face flaming.

“A stick-up,” Mawson spat out, cruel lips twisted. “We’re getting the jack and the plates! We were doing it anyway, Hugon. You came here by yourself. You and this punk, Pim, will take a ride together just before we leave for the Miami plane.” He stepped forward, face taut, snapped: “Scotty, get some jack and drive over after the tickets. You can get to the airport and hack in thirty minutes. Here’s the jack.”

Face white, Penny handed the stack of money he held in his hand to the raging Mawson. “T-T-There’s j-just six hundred d-dollars there, M-Mawson, he said haltingly, voice hollow with foreboding.

“And that’s just enough, punk,” Mawson snarled savagely. “His fist spatted to the side of Penny’s face as he grabbed the money. He handed it to Scotty, who nodded and raced from the room.

“Now,” Mawson said nastily, “we’ve got a nice little wait. Punk, you and Hugon get across the room and sit on the floor. Gunner—” to the little man — “take Hugon’s gat.” He looked at his watch. “It’s twelve-thirty now. We’ll sit up the rest of the night. We gotta leave here about quarter of five in the morning. There’s too many people on these roads now to try a rub-out. We’ll wait. It’s still dark at five and we can get rid of these punks on the way to the airport.”

It was a long night. Penny Pim sat against the wall, his sore and protesting muscles screaming in agony whenever he moved. If there was only some way to be sure! He certainly was through playing detective. It wasn’t the life for a — for a man who had a girl like Naomi waiting! He wondered what she was thinking. Was she very angry? Or just hurt because he failed to show up for the movie date?

A battered alarm clock on the table ticked off the long seconds, each one bringing him closer to eternity. There was no way out now. The chance he had taken was a big one, the—

“Boss, I’m getting the heebies. Let’s take these punks out and get it over with.” Gunner Wry jerked to his feet, eyes dancing crazily.

“What time is it?” Mawson asked with a yawn.

“After four,” Scotty said sleepily. “I’m damn tired of holding this gat on these two punks. My wrist feels like it’s breaking. I’m with the Gunner, Mawson. Let’s find a nice big ditch for these guys and then ride around a bit before the plane leaves.”

“Well, okay,” Mawson agreed. “You got the tickets? Each of us take one, see? We won’t speak to each other on the plane.” He looked across at Penny and Hugon. “All right, punks, hop up! We’ll take a little ride and then—”

Dazed, body and head aching, Penny got slowly to his feet. If there was only some way he could gain time. His plan had to work, simply had to! If he had just another hour...

Then Penny Pim threw back his head and laughed. It was a cackling, creaking sort of a laugh, but it expressed a sardonic mirth that was grating, almost hysterical.

“What the hell?” Mawson yelped, pasty face angrily red.

“The... the money!” Penny shrilled. “You... you think... you’re getting away with it! Fools! You utter damned fools!”

“For a plugged copper I’d chop this guy in two!” Gunner Wry raised his Tommy-gun, thin face ascowl.

“Wait!” Mawson ordered. He swerved on Penny. “What you mean?”

“You fool!” Penny croaked. “Don’t you realize all that money is hot? Sure, it’s hot! Stolen money, ransom money! The number of every bill is on record in every bank and police department in America! They’ll catch you before you even get to Miami!”

“Damn you, Hugon!” Mawson swerved, jerked up his gun.

A wild scream came from Penny’s bruised lips. The grating keening of his shriek made Mawson jerk. The next moment Penny had the gunman’s arm in both hands. He twisted, pulled. Somewhere he had read that ju jitsu was done by pulling and twisting. By an incredible piece of luck he did everything just right. Mawson parabolaed over Penny’s hunched-up back, crashed to the floor. Just before his body hit Penny jerked once more and a bone cracked.

Hugon, face red and eyes flashing, jumped for Gunner Wry who was trying to raise his machine gun in the cramped room. The red-headed man got the gun. Gunner, body and muscles set for a terrific jerk, braced himself. Instead, Hugon pushed the gun and the butt of it got Gunner Wry in the throat. He fell back, gurgling a strangled scream.

Scotty and Mike Duffy converged on Penny for a quick kill. Hugon turned, panting hard, at Penny’s wild scream of alarm. He jumped forward, made for Duffy. The taxi driver pulled trigger and the bullet caught Hugon in the center of the forehead. Duffy yelled, turned the gun on Penny Pim.

Penny saw the man’s finger tighten on the trigger, saw the flesh whiten. He threw himself forward the instant the shot sounded. Something terribly hot flashed through his shoulder. Dimly, he heard a fusillade of shots from far away, the crashing of a door. Then unconsciousness again swooped down and enveloped him...

Penny Pim awoke to a feeling of oppression. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t suck enough air into his straining lungs.

“Take it easy, fellow,” a soft voice told him.

Penny opened his eyes, looked up. Staring down at him, keen blue eyes understanding, was a man. The clean-cut face relaxed into a smile. “I’m Grant, Treasury Department,” he said. “It took us three hours to get the message, Mr. Pim, but we finally got it through our thick skulls. It was more than cleverness. You’re a genius, young man!”

“M-Message?” a voice croaked.

Penny turned his eyes with a mighty effort, saw Mawson staring at him, his close-set eyes venomous but puzzled.

The T-man grinned “Sure, a message. Mr. Pim recognized at once that all the money Hugon was giving you for the plates was hot. Hugon collected it from fifty or more different cases in the New York rackets.” He flashed an admiring look at Penny Pim. “Maybe you’re feeling well enough to tell it, Mr. Pim,” he suggested.

Penny nodded. “Sure, Mr. Grant. I... I knew it would get into circulation tonight as Scotty was going to pay for the plane tickets. I... I managed to have just the right amount ready for Mawson when he sent Scotty for them. While I was comparing the money with the plates I arranged the bills to spell out a message. A certain bank note’s number told me it was from the Apperson extortion case, in New York. Another number was one I remembered from the Halpern kidnaping case. Airline ticket offices watch out for hot money more than the banks even for crooks always try to make a getaway by air.

“All banks, ticket offices, and places where there is a big turnover in currency, have orders not to disturb the order in which the bills are placed, but to call the G- or T-men at once. The ticket seller apparently kept his head and did just that. I spelled out, using the numbers on the bank notes in a special case as the key, the word: HELP — 8418 ORT MILL ROAD — HELP T-MEN. The ‘H’s’ were bills from the Halpern case and whose numbers the T-men had on file, the ‘O’s’ came from the Offenburger case, in Newark, and so on. I picked an H, D, A and H for the address of the Gem Garage, as they are the 8th, 4th, 1st and 8th letters of the alphabet.” Penny closed his eyes, shook his aching head. “I... I guess that’s about all. Oh, I’m so tired, so—”

“You’re a real detective, Mr. Pim,” Grant said softly. “I wish I had some men like you in my division!”

“Just... just an accidental detective, Mr. Grant, and... and really rather interesting work,” Penny Pim said weakly. He smiled with strained effort, whispered: “But I showed up the great Detective Linn, my... my buckaroo!” His head lolled back. Before his dazed eyes materialized the features of Naomi. A twisted grin crossed his battered face. He wondered if he’d forgotten that proposal of marriage. He’d have to brush up on it. How did it go now?

“Naomi dear my, you love I,” Penny Pim whispered. “It on well live can we but — Naomi dearest — year each — amount — small — a — make — only... I—”

“Poor fellow.” T-man Grant said gravely, “he’s completely out of his head!”