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

Something bored into Hewitt’s thigh with paralyzing pain. His quick shot stiffened the chap on the floor. The stumbling one squatted, poking the nose of the tommy to rake the space beneath the truck.

A slug from Hewitt’s weapon glanced along the tommy barrel and found a target in the squatting man’s stomach. His eyes popped as he dropped the gun and rocked on his heels, hugging his stomach, face graying.

Hewitt reached up and caught the tailgate with fingers of his left hand, helping his paralyzed leg to pull him up. A flicker of movement at the stair head warned him. He snapped a slug tip there and sagged, keeping his clutch on the tailgate.

A sawed-off shotgun roared and pellets rained on the back of the truck and the tailgate, riddling Hewitt’s fingers.

Swearing, he huddled on the floor, wondering how many more of them there were up there, and how soon they’d get him now.

A siren shrieked, not two blocks away. Men cursed frantically up at the stair head, and feet sounded hollowly as a pair raced across the floor for the rear of the place.

Hewitt heaved up, tried a step toward the stairs and fell, swearing his anger and disgust. He half-crawled, half-wallowed over to the office doorway, and pulled himself erect by clutching door casings.

Men came hurtling into the office through the outside door, guns in their fists, faces grim and alert. The glint of light on brass buttons was a welcome sight to Walter Hewitt.

“Outside!” he croaked. “Watch the second floor — at the back!”

Two uniformed men rushed outside. Captain Dailey and a bulky dick sprang to catch Hewitt’s reeling figure and ease him into a chair.

“Stairs — inside—” Hewitt gobbled a warning, and they left him to plunge into the shop.

There was shooting, inside and outside, and presently things quieted down. Captain Dailey and the dick returned to the office dragging two handcuffed, apprehensive prisoners. The two cops came in from outside and handcuffed the groaning Risman.

There were two men out in the shop who Hewitt thought would need no handcuffs.

Dailey went over the stocky detective hurriedly.

“You all right, Hewitt, outside the slug in your shoulder and the one in your leg?” he inquired anxiously.

Hewitt waggled the numbed fingers of his bloody left hand.

“Count ’em!” he husked. “And see if I’ve got ’em all!”

Dailey examined the hand and grinned. “It’ll make a good fist — as good as ever — in a few weeks,” he gave cheerful information.

A dick and a uniformed man came down from an upstairs investigation.

“The loot from the armored truck is all upstairs,” the dick reported. “They must have been making the split, when Hewitt jumped them.”

“Tell us about it,” Dailey demanded respectfully. “How did you find the gang in this hole, Hewitt?”

Hewitt told them, beginning at the food store and running briefly through his experiences.

“Following that tag trail,” he wound up, “brought me to this place. That’s Dave Risman over there in the coveralls. They used his outfit to cut their way into the armored car tank. I guess they’ve been making his place headquarters.”

“We’ll make some of them sing, down at headquarters,” Dailey promised, “and we’ll find out about things.” He cocked his ear to the wail of an ambulance siren, nearing the place. “There’s you cab, Hewitt. The chief will be tickled to hear about this. He’ll be out to the hospital to see you, fellow!”

“Tell ’em to drive slow,” Hewitt cautioned huskily, when they were helping him out. “I’m not in any shape for a wreck!”