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

He purposely left his key in the ignition switch. One glance into Rush’s car showed him that, as usual, Rush had also left his key in the ignition lock.

Cramer did not knock as he entered his partner’s home. And he found his partner seated comfortably at his breakfast.

“Well, John,” the senior partner looked up as Cramer came over to the table and stood there, “this will be about the last time we will be going to the office together; and in a way I’m rather glad. Had breakfast?”

“Yes, thanks, Pete. And as for the office,” he turned and started toward the door, “I’m afraid I can’t wait for you this morning. I just thought I’d drop in to see if I could make you change your mind about retiring. If your mind is made up, though, my stopping here has been of no consequence.”

“That’s right, John,” Rush assured him somewhat wistfully. “I’m through for good. I’m not getting any younger, you know. I’m going to have a little fun while I can.”

Cramer nodded. “In that case, I’ll be going. The auditors will be at the office by the time I get there, and I want to give them all the help I can.” He started to leave, but turned suddenly. “By the way, you left your key in your car again. I saw it as I came in. That’s a good way to have your car stolen.”

Rush grinned sheepishly. “I guess you’re right, John. I’ll try to remember it after this.”

“The damned, complacent-faced old fossil,” Cramer murmured as he closed the door and started back to the street. “Just wait till he steps on that starter.”

“Dad,” Mr. Rush’s eldest boy came into the room and stopped beside his father, “Sis wanted to get out with the roadster, but your car was blocking the drive. So I ran your car around in back of Mr. Cramer’s. If he takes your car by mistake, you can tell him about it when you get down to the office.”

“You shouldn’t have done that without first telling—”

A deafening explosion obliterated the rest of the sentence.

The Green Fingers of Death by Tom Curry

Detective Devrite had seen their marks on his friend’s throat, and knew they were reaching for his own, hungrily, avidly.

I

George Devrite stared at the water-washed corpse on the morgue sliding slab. The head was rigidly back so he could see the long green-tinted fingermarks on the throat.

“There,” he thought, “am I, save for luck and the grace of heaven.” For Devrite was a secret agent of the New York police and the dead man, picked up in the lower harbor as the tide swept him to sea, had also been one of Inspector Hallihan’s operatives. And Devrite knew that if Waite had then been standing looking at a brutally murdered Devrite, Waite would have felt the same burning rage he did, a desire to avenge a comrade’s death.

Hallihan, large and favoring a fireman’s haircut, put his curly head to one side as though viewing a choice painting. He clinched a burnt-out cigar stub in his lined Irish mouth. He felt as did Devrite about this murder. He was furious and wished to get his hands on the killer, but he was a cool man of long police experience and knew as did Devrite they must keep their heads. He was giving Devrite a private showing of Waite’s remains. Devrite worked under cover, was unknown to detectives as well as criminals.

“I should hate,” remarked the inspector, “to have whoever did that get his hands on my throat when I was down. There’s not another substantial injury on the body, the life was choked out of him. See how deep the tips drove in — takes strength to do that.”

Devrite held his nerves in iron control; there was a grim set to his lips and he knew he would go the limit to capture the killer of Waite. “And the green tint where the nails drove in?” he asked.

“Part of the discoloration.”

Devrite shook his head as though he did not believe that. His lean form was bent, hands clasped at his back. “I’m not so sure. If we could find the spot where the murder occurred—”

They left the body and retired to a police room.

“Here’s all I’ve got,” said Hallihan rapidly. “About a week ago a Mrs. Evans came to us and asked for a confidential interview. She was worried about her son Robert, a teller in the United Bank. It sometimes happens a mother comes to us in a last desperate attempt to save a child. She couldn’t say what she feared, but he was staying out late and she thought he was gambling; though it was his general manner which frightened her so she came to us. She believed bad companions were corrupting him and was willing to place him in small trouble to save him from worse.”

“You must give her credit for that.”