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

He bent over the dead German, hoisted the heavy body on his back and staggered to the rear. He went through a gate and down steps, bent double under the load. Hidden from view by two converging walls he switched on his fountain-pen flashlight. The German was coarse of feature, of peasant stock. Devrite’s beam stopped at the thick hands: he had a distinct mental shock as he saw the fingernails were stained green.

In the pockets he found a ring with several keys attached. His own pants were dirty from his hand-to-hand scrap in the alley; he threw off his coat and put on the German’s worn one that did not match his trousers, dropping the Luger pistol in a pocket. He hurried back to the side door.

“I may need you,” von Hult had said. Devrite looked at the door — his fingers touched the keys and he drew out the ring. The third one he tried fitted the spring lock and he slipped inside.

He was in a small hall, looking about. Ahead was a short flight of steps and he could hear von Hult’s voice raised in anger. To right and left were closed doors — there would be house servants but they would sleep on the top floor.

He started on tiptoe up the stairs: as his eyes came level with the story on which was the living room, he saw von Hult’s long legs flash past an open double door. He crouched and listened.

“You haff gone so far you will now do as I order,” declared von Hult. Devrite glimpsed the powerful figure; Robert Evans huddled in a corner of the davenport. “Fife thousand you owe me from cards. This iss the way you can repay. A gendleman pays his debts, Evans.”

“I’ve thought it over — and I won’t do it!”

A bank holdup? wondered Devrite. Abetted by the teller? But von Hult’s next words made that seem improbable.

“Dumbhead,” snarled von Hult, red with fury — he stood before. Evans shaking a fist in his face. “Now, hear: tomorrow you stard or else—” Von Hult broke off, the implied threat more ominous than any he might have uttered. “I am not the sord of man who can be cheated.”

Devrite was already convinced of that. Evans, facing von Hult’s towering rage, muttered, “All right — I’ll do it.”

The spy shrank, pressing against the rounded step edges as von Hult swept through the double doors and went up front. He heard the sliding metallic sound of a dial telephone. Von Hult spoke to the party be obtained in German: “Ja, bring it yourself, Herman,” and hung up.

Devrite backed down the stairs; it was time to call Hallihan. Evans must be trailed and checked at whatever he was about to attempt for von Hult. That was obvious.

It was fortunate he left when he did, for he was hardly outside when von Hult came down and opened the side door. “You are ready?” he said in German. “Your boss Herman is coming. After he arrives the young man inside will leave for his home uptown. Get out in the street and follow him. If he goes anywhere but to his apartment you will instantly put a bullet through his heart and make your escape. You understand?”

“Ja, Excellency—”

Von Hult closed the door. Devrite rapidly crossed down through the back court and hurried up Madison to an all night drugstore where there was a phone booth. He was glad to be out of the side alley before Herman came; von Hult might not know all the men but Herman certainly would. And he was also glad for Mrs. Evans’s sake that he had been there in place of the German guard when von Hult gave that order to kill Robert in case of a false step.

Hallihan was usually on tap, often slept in his obscure office down the street from Headquarters, outwardly an importer of beaded goods but actually the main receiver of reports made by such agents as Devrite.

“I haven’t much time,” said Devrite quickly. “Please radio Berlin on a Count von Hult.” He gave an accurate description of the man, told Hallihan of the dead German in the court, the address of the graystone house. “And,” he added, “send a man up to arrest Evans at his apartment.”

“Ugh!” grunted Hallihan, in distaste. “Soche’s in for it? I hate to think of his mother, after she came to us—”

“This is preventive. I’m sure of nothing yet except that von Hult’s up to some game involving Evans. I’m going to find out what it is. Von Hult must be watched continually from now on.”

“I’ll send a shadow up there at once,” Hallihan promised.

Devrite hung up and hurried back to the side street. He took up his post across from the graystone — von Hult had so ordered. Soon a dosed car drew up and a huge man in a dark suit and cap got out of the driver’s seat. He went to the door, carrying a brown bag some twelve inches square.

The secret agent had the Luger in his pocket. He thought he might need it when he saw Herman’s bulk — for he was practically sure this was the man von Hult had called. And it was vital for Devrite to finish the job; he must obtain evidence enough so Hallihan could send in the regular police. As yet he was not certain of anything, save that von Hult was a criminal.