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

It was a counterfeiters’ den and obviously Herman’s place of business; von Hult must be the chief of the bunch. And Evans — the bank teller — Devrite thought he understood now. A bank teller would be perfect to pass a large number of queer bills.

Herman swung ponderously and glared at Devrite. “Who’s this?” he demanded in German.

The small man reported, “Another thief. It’s lucky we kept guard. He came through the trapdoor and I caught him.”

“Good,” grunted the giant.

He scowled as he approached Devrite and slapped the agent’s pockets; he felt the gun and took it away. Devrite looked at the big man’s pudgy hands; they were stained green, green with indelible ink used in making the false money.

He understood now: Waite had gone from Evans to von Hult to Herman’s. He had, just as Devrite, found that obvious way into the counterfeiters’ den. Not having learned as much as Devrite at the graystone house, he had failed to phone Hallihan and had been caught and killed. The green ink had been scratched into the skin of his throat as they throttled him—

He knew, too, now, why the intrusion of Waite had not caused them to take alarm. “Another thief,” the small man had said. They had thought Waite a sneak thief.

“So,” Herman went on in thick English, “you come maybe to steal, you t’ief!” He struck Devrite in the face and knocked him sprawling against the wall.

“What’ll we do with him?” asked the small man.

“Wait,” counseled Herman. “The boss’ll be here soon. He must put the finishing touches on the new batch—” He spoke in German.

Devrite whined; “Aw, I was on’y lookin’ fer the price of a meal, mister. Lemme go.”

Herman stared at him grimly. “You haff seen too much,” he replied.

A buzzer sounded in the hall “Gus, you go down and let him in,” ordered Herman. He folded his arms and watched Devrite as his aide hurried to the ground floor.

Von Hult climbed the stairs, walking stick in hand. He came hurriedly into the big room. His face was dark with rage as he stood beside Herman looking at Devrite. The secret agent stared back at the master counterfeiter.

“Another thief, sir,” Herman reported. “We caught him like the first — this time we were watching carefully.”

Suspicion flared in von Hult’s deep-set dark eyes. “A second? You,” he growled, prodding Devrite in the ribs with his long fingers, “who are you?” — Von Hult’s fingers were quite clean.

Devrite spoke in as high a voice as he could make sound natural, for von Hult had heard him speak back in the alley. “I just t’ought it’t be a good place to knock off a few bucks—”

Von Hult cursed. He lunged at Devrite and seized the secret agent’s throat. Devrite felt the crunching of his windpipe in those powerful hands. His own flew to grasp the tautened wrists but he could not tear them away and his eyes popped out, blinded with water — all his wits, all his training came to him at that instant and he called forth all his reserve power. He seemed to surrender and as von Hult drove in, he drew back his fists and rammed them violently into von Hult’s stomach.

It broke the throat grip. Devrite fell and came up between von Hult’s crotch, lifting him off his feet and flinging him against the great, slow Herman, who was coming in to help.

Von Hult’s appearance gave the swift-thinking agent new hope. Hallihan would have had time to get shadows around to the graystone, and they should be outside now, having trailed von Hult. And, unless Devrite underestimated Hallihan’s ability, the fact that von Hult must have a criminal record back in Germany, that he was a master counterfeiter — such men are not made in a short time — meant the inspector would take no chances but would have von Hult heavily covered.

Yet somehow Devrite must signal those outside else they might be too late.

The wires near the motor were bare of insulation. He reached up and shoved them together. His hand was scorched and for an instant he felt the pricking needles of the current, biting in agony at his smashed lip. Blue sparks hissed but the lights suddenly went out and the current was off.

“Stop the door,” bawled von Hult.

Devrite in the blackness ducked under the long worktable and reached the fire-escape window. He smashed the pane with his fist and a stab of blue flame and the thud of a bullet in the still told him they had placed him and were shooting his way. He gave a penetrating, drawn-out screech as he dove out the window. The racket should be enough to bring Hallihan’s men in at once.

He was outside. And he heard von Hult shout, “They’re breaking in downstairs — hurry, over the roofs—”

Devrite started up the ladder instead of down. A man below in the court shouted at him, “Hey — up there! Surrender—” And when Devrite rushed on he fired a shot but the agent dove over the parapet and reached the trapdoor, slamming the thick panel shut on top of von Hult’s head. It knocked the German back inside, delayed the counterfeiters still further.

He had been correct: Hallihan had put enough men on the German to clean up.