Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

So, at precisely ten o’clock the next night, Linky entered the speakeasy. As usual, he was alone. (He was never seen in any one’s company.) Taking a table near the door, Linky ordered up a whisky. The place was blue with smoke and the atmosphere was charged with a foreboding tenseness. Men with white faces and women with carmined lips made their way through the blue haze and out into the street — and safety — when Linky ordered his second whisky. They knew that an ill wind was blowing. But a few of the more ignorant souls — those who didn’t know Linky — remained.

Five minutes after the bad man’s arrival, Kerrigan entered. The gritty little agent walked up to Linky’s table and focused his piercing, blistering stare on the man before him. The effect of this treatment on Mitchell should be evident. He started to burn up, asked Kerrigan in threatening tones what the hell he wanted, whereupon the agent, without speaking, abruptly and sneeringly turned his back on the bellicose Linky and strolled across the room.

Mitchell, recognized as the fastest man on the draw in New York, aside from Kerrigan, pulled out his revolver and aimed it at the agent’s back. Kerrigan was looking at the bartender, not Linky. The bartender’s eyes nearly popped from their sockets. Kerrigan knew what that meant. So, without turning, he shouted:

“Mitchell, put that cannon away!”

Then, Kerrigan turned around and strode swiftly over to Linky’s table. The bad man was still pointing his gun at the agent, who had not drawn his weapon.

“I told you to put that cannon away, you dirty, filthy, lousy rat!” thundered Kerrigan, who knew all the adjectives — and used them.

Mitchell, for the first time in his life, put his gun back in his pocket without firing it. Then the Wolf, who weighed a hundred pounds less than the bad man, grasped Mitchell by the coat collar and the seat of the pants, marched him over to the door and threw him out on the sidewalk — face downward!

Kerrigan then returned to the table which Linky had “left” so unceremoniously, scooped up the bad man’s hat, went back to the door and threw it in its owner’s face.

“If you ever set foot in this place again, you weasel,” roared Kerrigan, “I’ll blow your rotten brains through your thick skull! I’m one guy that you can’t scare!”

Kerrigan later explained that he had not drawn his gun on Linky for fear that several of the cabaret patrons would be killed by stray bullets. As for Mitchell, he was a broken man after his encounter with the Wolf. He hadn’t the heart to go after the little agent and he was never seen in the vicinity of the unlucky speakeasy again.

Linky died as violently as he had lived. A little later, a girl lured him to a speakeasy. Four men, who didn’t want to go to the trouble of removing Linky’s bullet-proof vest, grabbed him while a fifth stood on a chair and pumped six bullets through the crown of his head. When Kerrigan heard of the murder, he smiled and said:

“What a pity! Poor Linky gave me the biggest thrill of my life and I had hoped to meet up with him just once more before one or the other of us got humped off...”

III

About two years ago members of the narcotic squad, working out of New York, were beginning to get gray around the temples because they couldn’t lay their hands on a mysterious leak, through which hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of dope was finding its way into this country. Various of the agents had a hunch that the stuff was filtering in from big transatlantic liners or ships calling from South America, but sharp eyes focused on the baggage of incoming travelers at the New York piers failed to confirm any such suspicions.

Assistant United States Attorney Blake, under whom many of the Government’s best agents operate, called in Kerrigan.

“Jim,” said Blake, “this leak is beginning to get on my nerves. I want you to concentrate on it and plug it up.”

“Enough said,” replied the intrepid Kerrigan, who picked up his battered slouch hat, pulled it well down over his eyes and sauntered out of Blake’s office.

For several days the Wolf met all the big steamers which docked at New York and trained his eagle eyes on each and every passenger who came down the gangplanks. On the seventh day of his vigil, he noticed a dapper young man, with a pinpoint mustache, leaving a steamer which had just arrived from South America. Kerrigan began to search his uncanny memory. He had seen that face somewhere before. Oh, yes! That was the fellow he had pinched in December, 1918, for running dope! So, when the gentleman in question set foot on the pier, Kerrigan called him aside.

“Remember me?” asked the agent.

“I sure do,” was the tart reply.

“Come over here in the corner; I want to search you.”

“You’ll be wastin’ your time. Wolf; I haven’t got a thing on me.”