Black Mask (Vol. 22, No. 2 — Mary 1939)

“What happened, Helen?” he demanded. His glance rested for a moment on Paul Tyler, then switched to her. “Who is this man?”

Helen Hastings’ eyes were bright. “He’s the man who shot Groh, Dad! I followed him — and caught him!”

Hastings’ eyes narrowed. “The police don’t know about this yet?”

“No, Dad. But they may suspect.”

“All right. All right. We only need a few minutes.”

He swung to face Paul Tyler. He was a tall man, with a great shock of white hair, and a bristling white mustache. He had made quite a record as a public prosecutor, and his name was being prominently mentioned for governor. But there were dark lines under his eyes, which Paul was sure had come there within the last few days, as a result of the “night club murder scandal,” as the opposition papers had tagged it.

Hastings waved Fowler back and came and stood directly in front of Paul. “What’s your name?” he barked.

Paul looked up at him, glanced sideways at the girl, then said, “Paul Tyler. And I don’t understand what this is all about.”

Smack!

Detective Fowler, who had moved to a spot directly behind the chair, brought his open hand around in a cruel slap to the side of Paul’s face.

Helen uttered a little gasp. Paul was almost thrown from the chair.

“Just to show him we’re not fooling!” Fowler growled. “I know how to make these rats talk, Mr. Hastings!”

District Attorney Hastings frowned. “I don’t like it much. But we have so little time.” He dropped his glance to Paul. “Well? What is your name?”

Paul said, “I tell you, my name is Paul Tyler. I’m a vacuum cleaner salesman. There are people in this city who can identify me. I don’t know anything about Groh’s murder, except that when I hit him, someone must have shot him in the back at the same—”

Smack!

Detective Fowler repeated the blow to Paul’s face. This time Paul was thrown sideways off the chair. He landed on the floor on his knees, rested there for an instant, his head ringing from the slap.

He got slowly to his feet. His right eye, where Fowler had slapped him, was watering. He saw the blurred figure of the girl, eyes wide with outrage, protesting to Fowler.

Fowler growled, “It’s the only way to handle rats, Miss Hastings. You watch him talk!” He took a step toward Paul. “Well, rat? You ready to spill?”

Paul said slowly, “Yeah. I’m ready!” And he leaped at Fowler. Both fists pistoning in and out with furious speed, he was all over the big detective, smashing blows to his face and stomach. Fowler, with the gun in his hand, was nevertheless forced backward, trying ineffectually to cover up.

Paul landed a haymaker on the detective’s jaw, but he only weighed a hundred and sixty, whereas Fowler tipped the scales at about two ten. Nevertheless, the blow rocked the big detective for a moment.

Paul dropped his fists, breathing hard. “Now if you’ll listen to me for a minute—”

He wasn’t prepared for what Fowler did next. The detective appeared to stagger forward, and Paul instinctively put a hand to prop him up. But Fowler raised his gun hand in a lightning motion, brought the barrel down in a chopping blow against Paul’s temple.

The room began to dance around in front of Paul, and Fowler’s thick-jowled face advanced and receded, and lights and shadows flickered before his eyes. He mumbled, “Who’s a rat now?” and bored in weakly, but he could barely raise his arms.

Fowler grinned wickedly and raised the gun and brought it down again.

Paul heard Helen’s voice, seemingly at a great distance, saying, “That’s cruel, Fowler!”

And he also heard Hastings. “Stop it, Fowler! Stop it! Don’t knock him out. He’s got to talk!”

Slowly, Paul sank down to his knees, fighting against the nauseous darkness that was enveloping him. He felt blood in his eyes, and the taste of it in his mouth. And then a hand was helping him up and into a chair. The hand was soft and warm, and he forced his eyes open and saw that it was Helen Hastings. He smiled wanly.

She produced a small handkerchief from some mysterious recess of her clothes, and dabbed at the cuts in his temple. Over her shoulder she said, “You’re a brute, Fowler!”

District Attorney Hastings came and stood in front of him, watching his daughter treat the cuts.

“Young man,” he said, “I’m sorry. Fowler shouldn’t have done that to you.”

Helen broke in indignantly, “He was trying to knock him out. He wouldn’t have been able to talk at all!”

The D.A. waved a hand. “I’ve sent him out. Now that we’re alone, I’m going to handle this my way.” He looked down at Paul. “Young man, I must know what happened to that gun. Did you get it? Believe me, it’s vitally important. I can help you—”

Paul said weakly, “How in God’s name can I have a gun when I didn’t shoot Groh?”