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

Captain Judson hauled out an ancient timepiece and peered at it. “An hour and a half have passed since the stick-up, and no word’s come in regarding any pinch.”

“I figured the same thing over an hour ago. I also figured like I told you, that the mobsters who pulled this job were no amateurs. They belong to the new order of professionals. They had their get-away in the bag, and it didn’t mean hitting the state highways with their car when they knew the roads would be jammed with police. They know about radio control the same as we do.”

Judson rubbed his chin. “Then they must still be in Pedro.”

“Swell, Captain. That’s just where they are.”

“Chris, don’t get me sore. You’ve got something on your mind. You always have when a case like this breaks. I can tell you’re holding back on me from the way your jaw slacks away.”

“Whatever I know I’m taking to Special Agent McDonald. He’ll know what to do with it. You’ve got no authority over me, Captain. Right now I’m free as the air, and I’m on my way.”

“Listen, Chris, you aren’t turning the department down...”

“Nerts on the department. It turned me down. Let the Federal men make the capture and get the glory. I’m just a...” Something in the old captain’s eyes caused him to relent.

“I forgot for a minute, Captain, that you’d have to stay in this town after I’m gone. Now, listen. How long can you hold back on that transfer?”

“Till tonight. Not any longer.”

Chris nodded. “I’ll see what I can do for the San Pedro police department. But don’t expect too much. Stick close to the phone. And if you have to go out, fix it with the operator to locate you. I may need help in a hurry.”

He smiled heavily and left the room. All the old instincts were aroused. He went first to the laboratory on a lower floor. Billings, the keen-eyed chemist and ballistic expert in charge, looked up from a comparison microscope.

Chris took the cork from his pocket with the circlet of glass around it. Without a word he handed it to the chemist. Billings placed it under a strong light, held it dose to his nose, squinted and said: “Cork and glass probably from a thermos bottle. The glass was filled with a valerian preparation obtainable most anywheres.

“The preparation used, as far as I can guess without a chemical test, is most likely zinc valerate, a pure white powder, or valerianic acid composed of small, water-white crystals. Dissolved in a small quantity of ether with water added, either of these chemicals make a lingering, and altogether repulsive odor. You found this cork near...”

Chris nodded. “Beside the car where the phosphorous candles were ignited. The rotten smell kept people at a safe distance, which was what the stick-up men wanted.”

“Leave it here, Chris. I’ll have it gone over for prints.”

Again Chris nodded. “About the thermos bottle angle. You mean the glass bottle inside the metal shell?”

“Exactly. The glass is crystal thin. It would break easily.”

“Which means,” said Chris, “that a bomb like this couldn’t be carried around. You think they were made here in town?”

“My guess is — yes. Why?”

“Just a hunch. And I’m going to play it for what it’s worth.”

The chemist shrugged. “If you mean you’re going to search for the metal case of a particular thermos bottle, the odds will be against you. The idea is good, but not practical. Better wait till we get prints from the cork. Then we can check back through the fingerprint files.”

“Too slow,” Chris frowned. “I haven’t the time. See you later.”

III

Crossing the street after leaving the police building, he almost ran down the sturdy Tommy, who was waiting for him. As they walked up Sixth Street together, Chris said: “Still want to be a cop?”

“Sure. I will be, too, some day.”

“All right. Here’s how. But first, how many kids can you get hold of right away for a job of work?”

“My neighborhood is lousy with them. Maybe a dozen. Maybe more.”

“Good. Here’s what I want you to do for me.” Rapidly Chris outlined his plan. “And there’s two bits for every bottle brought to me, and five dollars for the lad that brings in the particular one I’m looking for. Clear?”

“Yes, sir. Where will you be...”

“In the restaurant near that candy store where I talked with you right after the stick-up. And listen, Tommy. There’s five dollars for you in this case, regardless. So don’t spend too much of your own time searching trash cans. Y’understand?”

Tommy saluted his superior gravely. “Check, Mister Detective.”

Chris looked at his watch. Two hours and a quarter had passed since he had emerged from the restaurant. He felt the need of a stimulant. Pocketing his watch, he went into the Harbor Café. Here he had two drinks of straight Scotch.

Then he walked rapidly to the restaurant where he always took his meals. “George,” he told the proprietor, “for reasons which wouldn’t be important to you I want the use of the banquet room upstairs.”

“Sure, Chris. It’s empty. Help yourself. The place is yours.”