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

Black wood, shaped like a pistol. That was to take up the curvature of the blade itself which was a nasty thing about eight inches long and shaped like the fang of a saber-toothed tiger with a four-inch grip of polished teakwood. There were three thin white lines painted around the grip. Stivers and Porky saw the lines and sighed. “Well,” said Stivers, “that’s a load off my mind. That’s the one, Porky. No mistake. Sit tight.”

In a few minutes we pulled up in front of a combination pawn and jewelry shop with the name L. STIVERS on the ripped awning.

I said, “If this isn’t a fence, I’ll pass up my two weeks in August.”

“You ain’t takin’ no vacation in August, Mac,” Porky remarked grimly. “You ain’t goin’ no place from now on. Inside and watch your P’s and Q’s.”

We went in. Stivers had to unlock the store which made it plain he and the Porky specimen were the only two in on the thing. We went through the dusty imitation of a shop into the rear room where I was jammed into a creaky chair.

“Dill,” Stivers said coolly, watching me, “know what’s going to happen to you?”

I looked at the pistol in Porky’s hand. “I’m beginning to get the idea.”

“The bump.” Stivers smiled. “Pal, it’s kind of queer in a way. We let Rainsford put the finger on you himself before he died.”

“Don’t get you.”

“Then maybe I’ll get big-hearted and tell you. I guess you’ve figured it all the way now anyhow. You see, pal, when Rainsford took that cruise to bring back a two hundred and fifty grand ruby for Mrs. Lane, him and me got together and did some figuring. We figured that if the customs knew he was going after a ruby like that one, all on the level and for a rich dame like Mrs. Lane — they’d think he was all on the level, see? So we got the idea of him smuggling in some rubies on the side for a nice profit.”

Porky grunted. “Listen hard, Mac. It’s your last bedtime story.”

Stivers went on: “So I put up fifty grand and Rainsford put up fifty grand and he bought them rubies for us to cut here and sell — without any duty.”

“Sure,” I said. “I get the rest... you’d had letters from him. You wrote a suicide note and forged his fist to it. Then you went out and slipped Solly Sampson a Mickey Finn last night and lifted his pass. Plug-ugly here used the pass to get on the Aranthic this morning. You’d fixed it with Rainsford to hide the rubies in the handle of a dagger, with three white lines on the grip. So Rainsford handed out a lot of nice presents and gave me the ruby dagger for me to smuggle — unknowingly — through the customs.”

“Keep talking,” Stivers said. “It’s a shame to have to bump a guy like you.”

“Porky,” I said, “was to spot a reporter who got the ruby dagger. Me. But you double-crossed Rainsford. As soon as Porky knew who had the ruby dagger, he slipped Rainsford the poison and there was only you and your hundred grand worth of rubies, with Porky getting a small cut. Porky got through the customs himself with a regular custom pass, procured before the ship arrived. You tailed me and first chance you had you herded me.”

“Right,” said Stivers sadly. “So you see, it ain’t really our fault at all. Rainsford put the finger on you when he gave you the Balinese dagger with the white lines.”

I grinned. “He never did like me.”

“Stand up.”

“Wait a minute.” I stood up, feeling the muzzle of Porky’s pistol against my back. “Before you two gents commit a little murder, maybe we’d better settle one thing.”

“Yeah?” Stivers stared at me.

“Yeah,” I said. “Did you ever consider the fact that Rainsford might double-cross you?”

They looked at each other. “Go on, Dill.”

“I wouldn’t know myself,” I said, “but I have a funny feeling that your rubies aren’t in the grip of that knife.”

I was stalling. There wasn’t any reason why they wouldn’t be. But I was trying to get Porky close up against me while Stivers broke the grip.

It worked.

Stivers grabbed up the black sheath and pulled the dagger out of it, his eyes half-closed as he glared at it. Behind me, Porky shifted nervously. I could feel the muzzle of the rod in my back. It wasn’t nice. It made me shiver. I’m not the kind of nitwit who can laugh off a clip of slugs all ready to go places.

“What about it, Leo?” Porky asked hoarsely.

“I’ll see.”

Stivers stuck the hooked blade of the dagger under his heel and bore down. The blade held, but the teakwood — it was hollowed out — split loudly and the grip, surprisingly, came away in Stivers’ hand.

He gaped at it, his pop-eyes working grotesquely. “Empty! It’s empty!”

“What?” Porky cried.

That was the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party. Poppa Hanley had taught me the trick and I used it. The muzzle of that pistol was close against my back on the left side. I stiffened my arm, holding my elbow straight down and I whirled like a top.

My elbow hit the barrel of the gun and jerked it away from me toward the right, while my own right hand came around in order and grabbed Porky’s gun wrist. Poppa Hanley’s next instruction had been to bite.

I bit.