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

Ernie Kelly licked his lips. His eyes became opaque, murderous. He shoved it out ahead of him till it was within a foot of Larsen’s head.

Chris cuffed it aside and felt the scorch of powder against his palm. Breath made a rasping sound in his throat. The room began to revolve. Was he sick!

Again the gun drew down on its human target. Chris lunged. His fingers closed over Ernie’s wrist. He yanked savagely and struck with his free hand. He could feel bruised knuckles sink into the stringy cords of Kelly’s neck. Ernie choked and began to retch violently.

Hauling out his gun, Chris rapped him smartly over the right ear. Ernie collapsed. The detective staggered to his feet, holstered his gun and reached to his belt for steel bracelets. He snapped the wrists of the two brothers together, wiped the blood from his face, and started for the front door. He never reached it.

Mike Kelly, the third brother, came through, his gun belching a staccato fury. Chris flung the dining room table on its side and dropped behind it. A wood sliver stung his face. He raised his Colt. Mike nailed him then — through the forearm.

The Colt dropped to the floor and Chris Larsen knew that he had overplayed his hand. His cards had run out.

Mike Kelly came around the corner of the overturned table. His eyes were thin slits of hate. He kicked Chris’s gun across the room. He kicked the detective’s face. Brutality fairly drooled from his lips.

Chris spat. He attempted to get on his legs. Mike kicked him again. Chris moaned, shook his head and stubbornly tried a third time. Mike snarled and struck with the gun butt. Chris sank to the floor, his body quivering.

Mike went out to the back room. He saw his brothers on the floor cuffed together. He went back to Chris, rolled him over and searched for a bunch of keys. Found them and went back to release his brothers.

Hardly was the killer out of the room when Chris roused up again. His eyes opened. Pain spurred him to renewed efforts — pain and the will that made him feared along the waterfront. His fingers closed over a bottle. He had to use his scorched left hand. His right hung useless.

He looked for his gun. It was over against the wall. He looked out into the back room. Mike Kelly was bending over the handcuffed men, trying out keys. Chris started to crawl towards his gun. The floor creaked. Mike lifted his head as if listening. Chris hurled the bottle. Not at Mike Kelly, but into the front room where it crashed through a window. As Kelly straightened, Chris feigned unconsciousness. Mike brushed past him, not noticing the pretense, headed towards the front.

Again Chris roused up. It took every ounce of strength in his tortured body. He heard a noise outside on the back stairs. The screen door hinges made a rasping sound. The inner door opened and the head of a boy became visible around the edge of the door.

Chris called out huskily: “Tommy!”

Tommy saw him and started towards him, half-frightened but determined. The detective pointed to his gun. Tommy pounced upon it like a striking hawk. Chris got it fitted into his scorched left hand just as Mike Kelly came back into the room. The gun in Kelly’s hand spewed flame. But the Colt in Chris Larsen’s big paw erupted a split second faster. And the two shots blended as one.

Mike Kelly, pawing at a crimson chest, glared at the detective on the floor, then his eyes turned malevolently upon the boy crouched against the wall.

Venom dripped from his eyes. He swung his gun for the final act of violence that was part of his twisted mentality, and pointed it at the boy. Tommy did not flinch. His eyes turned pleadingly towards his big friend sprawled on the floor.

There was no other way out. Chris drilled Kelly, then — through the head. Kelly dropped without a sound, face downward, his gun arm extended, the weapon still gripped in his fingers.

From somewhere out of the depths of a tortured body, Chris found his voice. “Get to a phone, Tommy. Call police headquarters...”

“I... I already called them, Mister — Chris. They’re coming!”

Chris heard the near whine of a siren. He got to his feet, searched for whisky, found it and drank shakily. There was commotion outside and the pound of feet on both front and back stairs. Then the room was filled with cops and Special Agents.

Captain Judson looked at the cuffed men on the floor, then at Mike Kelly’s stiffening body. “Got all three of them, eh? Chris, you’re a glutton for punishment. If you weren’t so busted up, I’d break your jaw.” This was high praise. Chris liked it.

Special Agent McDonald came to where Chris was leaning against the wall. “Larsen,” he said, and there was admiration in his voice. “How did you do it?”

“Better check up first,” drawled Chris. “I haven’t had time.”