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

“Hand out the suitcases,” said Phelps to one of the occupants of the flivver. Two bags were promptly tossed from the car.

“Mind if I look over the stuff?” asked the Wolf of Phelps, who was standing alongside of him, still toying with his revolver.

“Not at all; go right ahead.”

Kerrigan opened up one of the suitcases and extracted a big chunk of what was represented to be opium. He then walked in front of the automobile headlights, explaining that he wanted to get a better look at the stuff. The agent at once recognized the contents of the suitcases as imitation opium and knew instantly that he was dealing with a gang of racketeers who specialize in the old game of “cheating cheaters.”

The Wolf began to burn up. He had gone to time and trouble of making the jaunt from New York to Vermont in the hope of running into something big, only to be disappointed in the worst way. He concealed his anger, however, for Phelps was standing right in front of him. Kerrigan was in a ticklish position — and he knew it. Why, any one of these fellows could bump him off out here in the wilderness and make a clean get-away.

Suddenly, Kerrigan raised the chunk of fake opium over his head, holding it with both hands, as if to further examine it. Then, in a fraction of a second, he let it fly — right in the face of the man in front of him! Phelps fell to the ground in a heap, knocked completely unconscious by the terrific blow. In less time than it takes to tell it, the Wolf whipped out his gun and covered the two men in the machine.

“You babies can step right out of there,” he snapped, “before I blow your dull brains out!”

Two stocky frames made clumsy exits from the car. The Wolf searched them and confiscated two revolvers and a hundred or more loose bullets. Still covering them, he leaned down and picked up Phelps’s gun. Then he marched the two conscious captives to the rear of the house and told them to stand with their chests flat against two trees, which were close together. Kerrigan next ordered the men to stretch out their arms and when these instructions were complied with he extracted some fine but strong copper wire from his overcoat pocket and bound the men’s hands. Thus, only a tree separated each prisoner from his liberty!

“I guess that’ll hold you fellows for a while,” said the Wolf.

Going back to the flivver, Kerrigan noticed that Phelps was beginning to display signs of life. So the little agent grabbed the latter by the collar and dragged him into the deserted house.

Shortly after eleven thirty, Connolley, fearing that something had happened to his side-kick, put in an appearance. Seeing the candlelights in the front room of the farmhouse, he walked in, to find Kerrigan holding an animated conversation with his desperate-looking captive.

“Would you mind going out to the back of the house, Ray, and bringing in those two eggs who are tied to the trees? They’ll probably find it a little warmer in here.”

Ten minutes later the three prisoners were lined up before the two agents.

“What’s the idea of selling me fake dope?” asked Kerrigan of the trio. “I’m a narcotic agent and came up here to catch you with the real stuff.”

“I was just thinkin’,” was the answer, “that you ain’t got a thing on us. We didn’t sell you real dope.”

“Is that so,” shot back Kerrigan. “Well, listen to this: I didn’t give you real dough, either. It’s all counterfeit stuff, seized by other Federal men in raids. We use it on guys like you.”

“Well, we’re even then,” said the man in brown.

“The hell we are,” said the Wolf. “I’m taking the three of you in for the sample of real stuff that you sold to me in New York last night!”

The Second Message by J. Lane Linklater

Hugo Oakes passes up some big money to solve the mystery of the broken lantern...

I

Hugo Oakes was leaning back in his chair comfortably. He was trying to roll a cigarette, but not succeeding very well. Most of the tobacco had already trickled down on his wrinkled and bespotted vest. Yet he seemed vastly pleased.

The papers on the desk in front of him may have had something to do with his mood; he had been retained as the legal representative of a wealthy gentleman named Markum, whose carelessness had involved him with the law. Money! Big money!

His short, fat body heaved and he sighed a satisfied sigh. Then he turned to his stenographer, who had a desk in a corner of the same dingy office room.

“Mamie,” said Oakes, “we got to work hard to-day on this Markum case. Can’t lose no time.”

Oakes was capable of magnificent eloquence in a court room speech, but elsewhere he talked as if he had studied English in the back room of a district police station.

“And, Mamie, I ain’t going to let no penniless bum interrupt me, either.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mamie, very seriously.