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

George Kelly raced through the rooms. Ernie pushed the drawn shade to one side. “Ever see that guy before?”

Muscles began to twitch in George Kelly’s neck. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I think I have. Ain’t he one of those harbor dicks Mike pointed out a couple of days ago?”

“Ahuh. He’s one of those dirty harbor dicks. But he didn’t look at the house, George. Maybe he just happens to be passing. What do you think?”

The lips of George Kelly began to whiten. He returned to the rear window. Five minutes elapsed. Then George Kelly saw the waterfront detective in the alley some distance away, and he knew that the moment he dreaded had come. He called to his brother.

“Ernie, that dick is coming down the alley. Slip on your coat. I’ll get behind the kitchen door. If he comes up the stairs, get him inside where we can finish him off.”

V

Chris Larsen studied the building from behind a pepper tree. It was an ordinary wooden structure with a garage beneath, and living quarters above. There was an outside stairway leading to a screen door. All the shades were drawn. A high fence surrounded it on three sides. Within the fence Chris could see the tops of shrubs and small citrus trees. There was a gate in the fence beside the driveway. The place was quiet and appeared deserted.

The detective looked cautiously down the alley. No one was in sight. He had started to turn around when something brushed against his back. Chris jerked sideways and swung at the thing behind him. The backhanded blow struck the boy in the cheek.

With a whimpering cry Tommy dropped to his knees.

Chris knelt beside him, torn between anger and pity. “Damn it, Tommy. I didn’t know you were behind me. Hurt?”

Tommy rubbed his jaw. Tears were in his eyes. “Naw,” he lied. “I didn’t mean to get so close to you. Honest. I was just watching.”

“I don’t want you to watch,” reproved Chris. “It’s dangerous. I sent you home once. You should have gone. This is no place for a kid. Now beat it, and don’t let me catch you around here again.”

Tommy scuttled back down the alley, his eyes aglow with excitement. But he didn’t go very far. Just far enough to get safely out of Larsen’s sight.

Chris felt for the reassuring bulge of the gun in his hip holster, took a long breath and went through the gate into the back yard.

His heavy feet clumped up the stairs. He rapped on the screen door. He heard feet cross the room. A thin-faced man wearing a blue coat came to the door. “What do you want?” he asked.

“State motor vehicle inspector,” said Chris. “I see you’ve got a car in the garage below. Mind if I inspect it? Routine stuff.”

“State inspector, eh? This is a new racket, fellow. Come on in. Have a drink, then we’ll go down to the garage.”

“Sure,” agreed Chris. “I hate to bother you with that drink...”

“No bother. Got lots of the stuff. Here,” picking up a bottle by the neck, “pour it yourself.”

The bottle started towards the detective’s head. Chris ducked. His fist curved up. Ernie Kelly crashed against the table. His hand streaked to his left armpit.

The door slammed behind Chris. A voice crackled: “No shooting, Ernie. Might be others outside. Beat him up!”

Chris backed against the wall. They moved on him together, lashing with the barrels of their automatics. Chris flung bunched knuckles into George’s face. Ernie came in on the flank. His automatic thudded against the detective’s shoulder.

The blow knocked the detective off balance. George tripped him. He fell to his knees. They flung themselves upon him. Metal gashed the detective’s cheek. He could feel the blood spurt out.

He lurched erect, carrying both men with him. He hit George Kelly in the face. Kelly shook off the blow and chopped at the detective’s head. Chris snapped his head aside and took the blow on his shoulder. Pain gripped in. Sheet lightning flicked in his eyes.

His shoulder bunched. His arm jerked back, then straightened with a piston-like movement. Thock! More pain. This time in the knuckles. George Kelly groaned, flung up both hands, and crashed to his back — knocked cold.

Instinct caused Chris to whirl. Ernie was backing away, half crouched. His gun flamed. Chris felt powder sting his cheeks. The bullet missed his jaw bone by a hair but clipped off a gory hunk of flesh.

He reached for his Colt But that movement was not going to help him. He realized it in a flash and flung himself down — out of the line of the burning lead chunks from Ernie’s chattering gun.

He hit his head on the corner of the table in going down. It almost knocked him out. He pushed himself to his knees with the palms of his hands. Ernie was still crouched close to the floor, a smoking gun in his fist. His eyes were wide and staring. He was waiting for Chris Larsen to die.

Sudden paralysis held Chris to the floor. Bullet must have struck a nerve. His throat and mouth were full of cotton. He tried to talk. But his voice was only a hoarse croak.

“Drop that gun!”