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

Von Hult came to the door answering. Herman’s ring. They exchanged a few words Devrite could not overhear. The door closed. The giant German puffed down the steps and entered his coupé. The starter buzzed. Devrite ran down the side street as fast as he could go; Herman’s car went east and the secret agent was gasping for wind as he came to the avenue corner and jumped into a taxi waiting for a fare.

Herman drove to Avenue A. Devrite paid off his cab at the corner and watched the hulking German unlock the front door of a dirty brick front. Devrite approached. The neighborhood was dark and deserted at this hour, the street lights seemed too feeble to dispel the gloom; cast by the derelict buildings. The one into which Herman had gone had evidently in bygone years been a small factory but the downstairs windows now were boarded over and it appeared deserted.

III

It was George Devrite’s business to investigate such places. It might be simply Herman’s living place; or it might be his business quarters. It was imperative that Devrite obtain complete evidence to turn over to Hallihan. The police could not crash into every building that looked slightly suspicious. Devrite must get in. and see what went on inside.

He made a quick survey of the surrounding buildings, all of three-story height. There was a convenient alley two houses down which led him to the old-fashioned fire escapes in the rear. He started up, able to see thin edges of golden light around dark drawn shades of Herman’s second floor.

It had been a hard and rapid run for him; his mind was weary from the long strain. Aware, too, that if he wished to hook these fish he must complete the angling so. Hallihan would know what he was after, he pushed swiftly on. It was tantalizing to feel that he might almost have the murderer of Waite in sight; he must solve that. And if he could land, von Hult on a criminal charge the scare might be enough to save Robert Evans. Deep inside he hoped to accomplish these two objectives. Everything he had he was throwing into this case.

Catlike in his movements, a lone hunter used to running terrific risks to abet the Law, he went up three ladderlike flights to the roof, two buildings down from Herman’s.

He paused to listen before he stepped on the cracked tarpaper topping, paused to listen and peer into the gloom. Low parapets separated the different houses; beyond glowed the bright lights of Broadway, with twenty thousand policemen on tap but Devrite dared not call one to assist him directly, since he was an undercover-man and could not expose himself to friend or foe.

He was on the roof next Herman’s, keeping close to the wall so there would be no creaking under his soft feet. He slowed and a hand gripped the Luger butt. Now he was over on Herman’s roof. He listened again and the low hum of a motor with stamping sounds caused his eyes to widen — must be Herman’s place of business.

Then he saw that open trapdoor. No light came from it. The opening led into Herman’s attic. It was a warm night and such vents were often left for air. He crept toward it, foot by foot, and cautiously peered over, saw the ladder leading down. It was too good to miss; he descended, found himself standing in total darkness. The motor and stampings were plainer — a crack of light showed under a door ahead and he started on tiptoe toward it—

The electric light blinded him as the switch clicked on, flooding up the tiny room where he was trapped.

“Throw up yer hands!”

Devrite obeyed for he had heard the pistol cock; his eyes turned slowly to look into the hard face of a small man of obvious Teutonic blood, holding an automatic in hand, covering Devrite. He was fully dressed and had been sitting there in the dark.

The secret agent was desperate; he would have made a dive for that gun had the small man come close enough to allow the slightest chance of success.

“Oben the door und valk oudt,” ordered his captor.

Devrite had to obey. In the hall burned a small bulb in a wall socket lighting descending stairs. “Down,” snapped the man with the gun.

Devrite preceded him, acutely aware of the death at his spine; a finger pull and he would be through. He was angry at himself for having stepped into the trap; the whole business might now go up in smoke. And then there was the desire for self-preservation; he did not wish to die horribly, like Waite—

He watched his chance but none came. An open door led into a large rear room. The paraphernalia he saw at once told him what von Hult and Herman were up to: there was a printing press Herman and another man were running, an electric motor hooked up in careless home-made fashion, lead-in wires bare where a knife had scraped them off to make the connections. Devrite did not miss the possibility of a short-circuit of such wires.

There were bundles of fine paper. Under glowing 100-watt globes Herman was turning out bills, 50’s, 20’s, 10’s, 5’s. There were plates for each bill and- inks to touch them up for final passing.