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

No one answered. More sirens. Three motorcycle cops drove up and took control of the traffic situation. An ambulance purred to a stop and out jumped two internes in white jackets.

“Keep away from the Buick,” warned Chris. “Here, Sergeant Gowry, hold the mob back. Bust their heads if necessary... oh, hell, what a shambles!” Chris had hold of a door handle and was staring into its blood-drenched interior. Three men in Naval uniforms were twisted in grotesque positions on the car seats.

A hand gripped his arm. He whirled, and there was a glint of vexation in his eyes for he thought some snooping reporter had crashed through the police lines.

“Out!” pointed Chris, his eyes snapping with impatience.

The man who was gripping his arm said: “No!” He turned back the lapel of his coat disclosing a metal shield. “Department of Justice,” he explained. “I’ll take charge. You’re—”

“Detective Lieutenant Chris Larsen,” said Chris.

“Heard of you. I’m McDonald, Special Agent. Your superior will receive orders from our field office suggesting cooperation. Meanwhile we’ll work together. Now. What’s happened?”

“Take a look inside.”

Special Agent McDonald surveyed the massacre. There was a tautness around his lips when he spoke: “Butchery, Larsen. The work of a machine gun at close range. But why?”

“See those initials on the door? U.S.N. That means Uncle Sam’s Navy. This is the paymaster’s car. And it’s my guess that it just came from the sub-treasury loaded down with brand new currency for the gobs of the fleet now at Panama on maneuvers. Swell, ain’t it? Sergeant Gowry says more than half a million...”

“It checks,” broke in McDonald, “with the first report I received. All right. Sergeant Gowry!” The radio car officer came over to the car. McDonald continued: “Find witnesses, Sergeant. Hurry before the crowd starts to move away. Ah! This way with the cameras, boys. Get angle shots through door openings from both sides. Also shots of the steering wheel and door handles.”

Two officers from the U.S.S. Vicksburg, supply ship for the fleet, had hurried over from the Navy landing. They identified the three Navy men in the Buick, and verified the fact that four hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars in new currency was missing.

The Special Agent took this all down in a note book. Big, brawny Chris Larsen watched the man. As a waterfront detective he was accustomed to more direct procedure, but he said nothing. Have to hand it to these G-men. They knew what they were doing.

Within three minutes after Special Agent McDonald took charge, wires were humming all over the southern part of the state. Teletypes were tapping out orders. Gowry had found two witnesses that had seen a tan sedan roll out of the smoke screen and turn up Tenth Street.

It was as simple as that. Radio cars picked up orders, relayed them verbally to state cops on motorcycles. The sheriff’s office received their orders. Within ten minutes a net began to tighten around San Pedro. Every road north and south was covered by grim-faced officers searching for a tan sedan.

All the main highways as well as feeder roads leading to Los Angeles were barricaded. No car answering this description could get through without being searched. The whole lower end of the state of California was sewed up tight.

Chris discovered after a time that he was merely acting as an errand boy. He left McDonald at the first opportunity and strolled back for a closer inspection of the Ford. In the gutter he found a big cork with a circle of glass attached to it. He picked it up casually, but his nose wrinkled as he dropped the foul-smelling clue in his pocket.

Then he went across the street to look things over from a different angle. Two stocky boys in denim overalls were sitting on the curb in front of a candy shop. One of them was saying: “On account of stink getting on the candy he’ll have to throw it away. If we can get hold of it, all we gotta do is hold our noses...”

“I’m gonna be a cop when I grow up,” broke in the other. “Cops carry guns. They ain’t afraid if they do get shot. Boy, if I had had a gun I coulda said to that guy at the wheel before he turned the corner, I coulda said: ‘Raise ’em, Mister, or out spills your brains!’ That’s what I coulda...”

Chris Larsen abandoned all pretense of acting like a hard-boiled detective and sat down on the curb next to the boys. In his right hand were coins which he jingled.

His square face beamed with a disarming smile. “Kids shouldn’t eat candy that’s been contaminated from the fumes, of a stench bomb.”

“Yeah?” drawled the one who wished he was a cop.

“Just give me a chance,” promised the other. “I wouldn’t care if a elephant walked on it.”

“It was on my mind,” said Chris, opening the closed fist and staring at the coins, “to pass this change on to you boys. Did either of you see what happened over across the street?”

The one who wanted to be a cop said: “I’ll talk for both of us. I’m the leader. I’m Tommy. He’s Don. How much you gonna give us?”