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

“Being a detective,” said Captain Judson, “is like service in the army. You take your discipline and like it. Hell, Chris, don’t you suppose I fought against your transfer? Damn it, you’re the best man I’ve got on the force. I pointed out your splendid record. And that made it worse. Your record is what’s causing the transfer. You’re too good for this hick, seaport town.”

“I never mixed with politics,” observed Chris. “Now, I wish I had.”

“Forget it,” snapped Judson. “There’s a future for you in...”

“I’m just a plain, hard-boiled dick,” said Chris. “And I ain’t kidding myself that I’m anything else. I like it here in Pedro. I belong here among the stevedores and longshoremen. And I’m not going to let any bunch of politicians kick me around...”

“You’ve got your orders,” broke in Judson. “Start packing.”

“You mean it, Captain?”

Captain Judson banged his desk with a heavy fist. “Mean it? Of course I mean it. Listen here, Chris. If there was any way under heaven I could break that order, I’d keep you with me. You know that — or you should.”

“Okay,” nodded the big detective. “I’m going out to breakfast. The order relieves me from duty, I suppose?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Chris shrugged. “I just wanted to keep the record straight in case somebody gets bumped off in this town within the next couple hours.”

A little while later the eyes of Detective Chris Larsen were still moody as he drank a second cup of coffee. San Pedro was his town — his life. What could ever take the place of its colorful and ever-changing racial groups, its husky stevedores, longshoremen and sailors from the Navy? How was he going to live without its bawdiness, drunken brawls, percentage girls and laughter? He didn’t know. He hated to think about it.

There was an actual ache inside the detective’s brawny chest. He never knew how much he liked the place until now. It troubled him. It made him think he was soft when he wasn’t. It made him want to squeeze certain police officials by their necks till they squawked.

Discipline! Sure, he was used to it. He could take it. But he wasn’t going to like it. Of that he was damn well certain. He lunged to his feet, paid his check, and went out to the street.

Free from active duty he felt queer and useless. From his pocket he took a sack of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. As he cupped his hand behind a match he heard sirens screaming.

He roused out of his moodiness. Fire! He looked up Pacific Avenue and saw a dense cloud of smoke on the right side close to Tenth Street. The smoke was so thick that it reminded him of an oil well fire. His eyes swerved in the opposite direction.

He stood there, listening, waiting. He saw a radio car cut in front of the fire trucks. Saw it swerve at the corner to avoid a slow-moving car crossing Ninth. Saw that its swerving was not going to help matters, then shrugged philosophically.

“Smash-up!” he muttered, throwing the cigarette to the gutter.

The radio car caromed sideways from the impact and crashed into a telephone pole. Chris started moving. When he reached the machine, Sergeant Gowry was crawling from the wreckage and mouthing profane epithets as he hauled his partner after him. The partner had an ugly gash in his forehead. His mouth hung open, and he was making a snoring noise.

Sergeant Gowry was excited — too excited to notice the detective Chris forgot he was no longer on duty. He grabbed Gowry by the arm. “Sergeant,” he snapped, “your eyes are bulging like a couple of grapes. What the devil is your big rush?”

Gowry broke into a run down Pacific. Chris kept beside him, Gowry’s voice jerked over his shoulder. “Stick-up, fellow! The Navy payroll. Close to half a million...”

The eyes of Chris Larsen hardened, and he became once more the man-hunter, hated and feared by waterfront gangsters. “What else?” he yelled. “Tell me more.”

“Yah!” gasped Gowry. “More? I don’t know any more. We were getting the details when that half-wit Calahan crashed into the pole.”

By this time they had reached the smoke-filled area. Half-blinded and coughing, Chris floundered through the smoke.

Gowry was in front of him wrenching at the handle of a Buick touring car. Chris’s sudden: “Hold everything!” stopped the sergeant. Chris spoke sharply. “Get out in the road and flag the fire trucks. This car ain’t burning. It’s the one behind it. Pfui, what a stink!”

A moment later a stream of water hissed into the center of whatever was causing the dense smoke screen. Chris choked in a cloud of nauseous vapor that almost gagged him. The smoke thinned. He was able to see.

Behind the Navy Buick was a battered, model T Ford. In front of it was a vegetable truck, one wheel jacked up, and the Buick was wedged between them, its front wheels against the curb.

The fire chief was pawing around the interior of the Ford. “Phosphorous candles!” he growled. “And broken glass from a stench bomb. Hey! Where’s the driver of this wreck?”