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

And now Rush had decided to retire and take things easy. It had been a sudden decision. With his retirement in mind, he had made arrangements to turn the firm over to Cramer, taking a large amount of the working capital and the rest in payments, which could be decided on at a future date.

Rush’s decision, however, came at a time which threatened to play havoc with Cramer’s plans. For three years, now, Cramer had been “borrowing” from the firm’s ready cash, faking entries in the books, always chasing that elusive “strike” in the market. Time after time, he had taken company funds to play a hunch, with the result that he became more deeply imbedded in the clutching mire of debt.

Thoughts drummed at Cramer’s mind as he sat there in his office. Where was he going to get twenty-one thousand dollars before tomorrow? Of course, there was the joint insurance policy he and Rush had taken out. But a loan on the insurance would still fall short of the necessary amount. He needed all of it.

He thought of the trusting Rush who had insisted that the policy be taken out at once, and in favor of either, should anything befall the other. The policy was for twenty-five thousand dollars. He must have that money.

If anything should happen to Rush before the auditors came in the morning, the examination would be put off long enough to give him time to collect the insurance and replace the money.

Cramer had not flinched at the thought of murder. Since first reading the letter he had given it much thought, but was at a loss to find a means of carrying out the plan. His glance strayed to the office window. He stiffened suddenly. A car standing on the opposite side of the street caught and held his attention.

He remembered the auto show he and Rush had visited several months before, and how they had taken a liking for the same car. Both had ordered one of exactly the same model in every detail.

Rising quickly, his eyes were cold and expressionless as fish eyes as he went over his suddenly formulated plan. Satisfied, he strode to the hat rack, donned his hat and left hurriedly.

Cramer brought his car to a stop before one of a long row of brownstone houses in the poorer part of the city. The house, a very familiar one to Cramer, was the headquarters of one of the city’s most daring auto theft rings, and known to very few persons.

Cramer mounted the half dozen steps and knocked on the heavy door. A slot opened and a pair of eyes surveyed him. The slot closed and the door opened and he was ushered into the presence of the big shot of the “Hot Car” ring.

Marty Reecher, seated behind a battered desk in an equally battered chair, was a slim, nattily dressed mar of forty with a small, brown mustache waxed at the ends. Nothing in his appearance betrayed him for what he was, as he deliberately studied Cramer’s heavy form for several seconds.

“You look like you’re in the money, Evans,” he finally drawled. “Things must be looking up these days.”

“The name is not Evans, now,” Cramer told him shortly. “And I didn’t come here to pass the time of day.”

“But I thought you were out of the racket,” Reecher returned questioningly. “What business can you have with me?”

“Whether I’m in or out of the racket is nobody’s business but mine,” Cramer snapped. “But let it pass I’m here on business. Of course, you remember a little case some seven or eight years ago in which my testimony saved you from a little stretch up the river?”

“So what?” Reecher demanded. “You don’t have to remind me of it. What do you want?”

Cramer drew a sheaf of bills from his breast pocket and tossed them on the desk in front of Reecher.

“There’s two hundred there,” he remarked as Reecher picked up the bills and started to count them. “I want a little job done on my car. Do the job right and there’s another three hundred that goes with that.”

“For five hundred dollars I’d build you a new car,” Reecher assured him. “Whatever it is, you can consider it already done.”

Eight thirty the next morning found Cramer bringing his car to a stop in front of his partner’s home. Rush’s car, an exact duplicate of his own, was already parked there. He thought the setting perfect as he switched off the ignition and started to climb out.

He was too intently thoughtful, however, to notice that his partner’s car, as usual, partly obstructed the driveway, a habit formed by the aging Rush who much preferred walking up and down the less tiring, gentle slope of the drive to that of the several short flights of stone steps.

Cramer reached under the dash before stepping from his car and threw a small, cleverly hidden switch; the switch which set into motion the primary machinery in his plot to do away with his partner.

Anyone pressing down on the starter after that switch was dosed would be blown to bits by the bomb which had been planted under the driver’s seat. Reecher had done his work. How well it had been done would be known shortly.