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

Glancing up at the front second story windows, Hewitt thought he could detect faint gleams of light about edges of pulled down shades there.

The sensible thing to do was to wait until the radio flash brought a cruiser out here, or perhaps Captain Dailey and men from headquarters, if the skipper had gotten the flash and had been returning to the city.

On the other hand, Hewitt reflected, glimly staring up at those front windows, they’d come screaming up with a racket that could be heard ten blocks. If that stick-up mob was holed up here, they’d flush, before reinforcements could be of much help.

Odds never bothered Walter Hewitt. He made a decision now, walked up to a small door that bore the scabby “Office” sign and kicked at the bottom noisily, after a twist at the knob proved the door locked.

Presently his assault brought results. He could hear feet clumping down stairs somewhere within. Then a greasy dim bulb flashed on in the office, and he could see a squat thick-chested swarthy man in greasy coveralls coming to the door.

Hewitt grinned ingratiatingly when a pair of suspicious dark eyes surveyed him through the door glass. “Open up!” he called. Locks clicked and the swarthy man threw the door open.

“What do you want?” he demanded surlily.

“You do welding?” Hewitt asked. “Say, I’m broke down in the next block. It’s a welding job, and I want to get fixed up so’s I can hit the highway on my trip. You’re Dave Risman, aren’t you?”

“I’m Risman, but I don’t take no jobs after six o’clock,” the man growled. “Who sent you to me, mister?”

Both Hewitt’s hands made darting, marvelously quick motions. Dave Risman blinked stupidly at the gun muzzle held rock-steady three inches from his thick middle, and at the gleaming gold badge in Hewitt’s left hand.

“Back up, Risman!” Hewitt warned softly. “Don’t open your trap in a yell, either. I want to see the inside of your shop!”

The mechanic fell back a few stumbling paces. Panic dawned in his widened eyes. Hewitt pressed him closely, sending darting glances about the small office.

He spotted the side partition door at once, and beyond could see objects dimly in a dark shop. There was a switch beside the door frame. Warily, Hewitt sidestepped to the opening and turned the switch.

Brilliant lights flashed on in the shop. His guess had been good.

A grunt of satisfaction escaped Hewitt’s lips, when his darting glance fell on a sedan in the driveway running past the office, its rear bumpers just touching the closed big doors. It was a Piper Six, blue-black, with red stripings.

A few yards ahead of the sedan stood a light truck, with an open body.

The rounded ends of two gas drums strapped to a small handtruck showed in the truck, coils of rubber tubing looped about their necks.

Hewitt’s stern eyes flicked to the swarthy man, whose face showed dirty gray under grease smears.

“Stand here in the doorway, Risman!” the order cracked. “Where I can keep an eye on you. Make a funny move and it’ll be bad for you!”

The mechanic shuffled forward. Hewitt stepped out into the shop, and over to the tailgate of the light truck. He drew the little tag from his pocket and looked for bits of wire that might match the broken ends on the drum necks.

He heard the mechanic draw a hissing breath, jerked his head for a square glance at the man. Risman’s eyes, wide and full of a mute appeal for help, were raised and staring upward at a point behind the dick.

Hewitt snapped his head about, following the direction of that strained stare. He saw a shadowy platform at the top of a flight of open wooden stairs, leading to the second floor. There was a blurred movement up there and something metallic gleamed in light rays.

Hewitt let his knees hinge and ducked below the truck tailgate, not a split second too soon.

The crashing blasts of a tommy-gun rocked the shop. Down aimed slugs pinged on the gas drums, ricochetted with eerie winnings and ripped through the wooden flooring of the truck in a hail of death.

Hewitt crouched, his gun gripped, faculties alert. From the corner of his eye, he saw Risman duck behind the door casing, jerking at a rear pocket. He could hear feet thudding on the wooden stairs as men charged down.

Then an automatic popped from the office doorway. The shock of a slug socking into the big muscles of Hewitt’s left shoulder almost bowled him over. He caught balance with his right hand, twisted and brought the revolver up to snap a shot at all that he could see of the mechanic, merely an arm and a shoulder exposed beyond the casing.

Dust flew from the coveralls at the upper arm. Risman yelped and the automatic clattered to the floor, falling out into the shop.

Then Hewitt was very, very busy with a desperate mob trying to shoot out of a pinch.

Peeping under the truck he saw a pair of thick legs. The gun in his hand roared and a man crashed to the floor. Another stumbled over him, cursing frantically. The prone man propped on an elbow and shot at Hewitt.