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

“Thanks, George.” He rubbed the palms of his hands together. “Arrange it with the cashier. If a young lad comes in inquiring for me, route him up the stairs where I’ll be waiting for him.”

This preparation attended to, he went to the bank and got a pocketful of quarters, then returned to the restaurant.

In less than an hour Tommy came into the room. His face was red. Evidently he had been running. He grinned at Chris.

“I got twenty kids at work in the neighborhood. What they won’t find in those trash cans, Mister...”

“You can call me Chris, Tommy.”

“Gee, you’re swell, Chris. I like to work for you.” He fumbled awkwardly with his cap. “Some of the kids,” he began. “Well, I didn’t tell them who wants the thermos bottles. See? They think I want them. So it’s me who pays them. Maybe I ought to have some quarters in my pocket to show them just in case...”

“Tommy,” marveled Chris, handing the boy a handful of silver, “you have got what it takes to make a good cop. Never tell all you know or think you know. Now beat it.”

“Yes, sir.” Tommy waved a grimy hand and vanished down the stairs.

Chris pondered his next move as he rolled and lit a cigarette. “If Judson,” he mused, squinting at the glowing end, “knew what I was doing... oh, hell! He never did understand how intelligent some kids are.”

He jerked erect and crossed the room to a window. He could see the Navy car and the Ford behind it. The big truck was gone. The place was barricaded to keep traffic away, and a couple of camera men were working on tire prints.

Chris grinned wryly. “Those Federal dicks don’t overtook much. If anything’s there, they’ll find it and classify it. But there’s one thing they won’t find.” He was thinking of the cork with the circlet of glass fashioned around it.

After a time he went downstairs and called Captain Judson. “Any news from the front lines?” he asked.

“No,” growled Judson. “Where are you? What are you doing?”

“You’d be surprised,” said Chris. “Bye.” He hung up.

He went upstairs again and waited. Inaction grated on his nerves. He kept glancing at his watch. Minutes were slipping away. Five, ten, fifteen.

There was a clamor of sirens. Chris looked out the window. Half a dozen motorcycle cops were passing through town at top speed. The place was overcrowded with cops from outside districts.

Chris clenched his hands. Was he crazy to place so much faith in a bunch of young boys? He ought to be out himself. Back and forth he paced, smoking continuously.

He went to the window again. A taxi was drawing up to the curb. The driver opened the door, and out popped Tommy, dragging a burlap sack behind him. Gravely he paid the driver.

Chris Larsen’s jaw twitched. He had a grin on his face when Tommy staggered into the banquet room with the burlap sack of clanking metal.

“We had swell luck,” said Tommy. “Twelve thermos bottles in all. Two gallons, six quarters, and four pints. Eleven of them are in pretty good shape. But I got gypped on one of the pints.”

Chris had the bottles out of the sack and on the table. “Which one did you get gypped on?”

“This one,” explained Tommy. “I didn’t look at it close till after I paid Eddie Weaver two bits for it. Y’see, it’s got no insides and no cork. I’m sorry about this, Mister... Chris.”

“That’s okay, kid.” But Chris could feel his heart begin to hammer against his ribs. He swallowed heavily. Had the impossible happened? He could hardly believe his luck.

“Tommy,” he asked, softly, “where’d this bottle come from?”

IV

George Kelly was slim, his movements furtive. He had his coat off and was in his shirt sleeves. A leather holster was strapped around his chest and shoulder. In the holster the handle of an automatic was visible.

He stood near a window, peering through parted curtains at the back of the house. At the front window stood his brother Ernie, similarly dressed and armed. The dining room table was covered with odds and ends of food and an assortment of liquor bottles. A radio was blaring in one of the rooms halfway between the brothers.

George Kelly’s mouth thinned to an ugly slit. The alley in back of the house seemed to break out with a rash of kids. They were everywhere at once, snooping, pawing like a scourge of rats.

Kelly took out his automatic, examined it and returned it to its holster. He went back through the house and snapped off the radio.

“Seen anything of Mike?” he called out to Ernie.

“Mike’s okay. He’ll be back soon. What time is it?”

“One o’clock.”

George Kelly began to sweat “This town is getting hot, Ernie. I don’t like it.”

Ernie laughed thinly. “Hot me eye. It’s the highways that are hot. We’re safe here, Georgie, till night. The boat Mike went out to hire will be ready by then. By midnight we’ll be safe across the line into Mexico.”

George poured himself a drink, gulped it, and returned to the rear window. The kids had left the alley. All was quiet again. A half hour of silence was broken by Ernie’s rasping voice.

“C’mere, George!”