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

Chris regarded the change speculatively. “All depends. There’s six bits here, but I can dig down in my other pocket if...”

Tommy looked wiser than his age. “If what, Mister?”

“If I thought you earned it. You see, Tommy, I heard you say you were going to be a cop when you grew up. That’s fine. Once I was a cop. Now I’m a detective.”

The eyes of both boys glowed. He had risen considerably in their estimation.

“Tell me, Tommy,” Chris resumed, “what you thought happened...”

“Thought me eye. I saw the whole thing, I tell you. It began back there at Ninth Street. That tan car was crowding the Buick. I heard the fenders scrape. They was lots of room. But the driver kept pushing over. Finally the Buick gets stuck behind that truck.”

Chris nodded. “You’re doing fine. Looks like I’ll have to dig down in my other pocket.”

Tommy continued. “When the Buick is jammed against the curb the tan car stops beside it. Then up rattles that Ford. I saw the driver lean back over the front seat and pretty soon the Ford begins to smoke. Gee, what a stink! I couldn’t see a thing after that.”

“Hear any voices, Tommy?”

“Naw. The engine of that Ford was making too much noise. But I heard the chopper...”

“Chopper?” Chris eyed his young informant sharply. “What do you know about; a chopper and how it sounds?”

“Easy, Mister. I heard plenty of ’em in the movies.”

“Check,” nodded Chris. “Then what happened?”

“Nothing for a couple minutes, then horns started to blow and cars began to move through the smoke. The tan car moved, too. It turned up Tenth Street towards the hills.”

“How many men were in it, Tommy?”

“I counted three and they was all on the front seat.”

“Was it traveling fast?”

“Naw, just crawling along.”

Chris looked at his watch. Nearly an hour had passed since he emerged from the restaurant following the stick-up. He put his watch back and dug down in his pants pocket for more change. This he evenly divided among the two boys.

“Thanks, Mister,” grinned Tommy.

“Keep me in sight,” said Chris. “I may want to talk to you later on.”

He went back across the street to see if anything new had developed.

II

Captain of detectives Judson scowled behind a black cigar as Chris Larsen entered headquarters. “Well,” he snapped.

Chris’s eyes were moody again. “I never saw such efficiency in my life. We’re all just a bunch of hicks when it comes to getting things done, when you compare us with those Federal men.”

Judson’s scowl deepened. “Is that all you’ve got to say?”

“The roads,” continued Chris, as if he hadn’t heard, “have been closed down tight for over an hour. And no arrests have been made. The system is good, but it isn’t working. Something’s screwy!”

“Chris, we’ve done everything. Every last stretch of state and county highway north, south, and east is cluttered up with searching patrols.”

“Sure,” said Chris. “Anybody would know that — especially the three killers in the tan sedan. They must have brains or they couldn’t have pulled that job so neat and got away without a trace. Give ’em credit, Captain. Hell, they knew they wouldn’t have a Chinaman’s chance of getting out of a town situated as Pedro is.” He rolled a cigarette.

After the second puff he said: “I wasn’t in charge of the investigation, Captain, so I kept my mouth shut.”

“Meaning?”

“You look off through these windows to the west, Captain, and you’ll see a hell of a lot of Pacific Ocean. Is there any reason for you or anybody else to think these smart gents might not use it in their get-away — say, after darkness?”

Captain Judson, looked as if he had swallowed his upper plate. He glared at Chris, and his face began to purple. He grabbed the receiver from the telephone. “Harbor Police,” he barked at the operator at the switchboard. His voice took on an edge as he rapped out curt orders over the line.

Abruptly he hung up, knowing that in a few minutes the Harbor Police and fast cruisers from the Coast Guard would go into action. But what would going into action mean? What would they look for? Could they be expected to stop every boat in the harbor channel? Judson continued to frown. He was far from happy.

“Well,” drawled Chris, “I guess I’ll start packing.”

Judson’s teeth almost cut his black cigar in two as they clamped down. “What do you mean — packing?”

“It’s no concern of mine if three poor Navy guys get bumped off. And what’s a half a million dollars? It’s Federal money. Let the Federals get it back.”

“You mean you’re quitting?”

“Quitting. I’m already out. You said so yourself. You said: ‘Chris, start packing.’ And that’s what I’m going to do, pronto.”

The eyes of Captain Judson gleamed cunningly. “This murder and stick-up is the biggest thing that’s hit Pedro since you smashed that Mannock snatcher mob from Frisco. And you talk about quitting. Make a crack like that again and I’ll break your jaw!”

Chris grinned. This was more like it. Judson was acting human again. “Well,” he asked, squinting at his superior.