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

He had landed half a dozen blows on Nimbo’s throat and chin that would have knocked any other man unconscious. The black only growled in response, mouthing at him like an animal, the ferocity of his rushing attack increasing as Hal’s hard, bare fists crashed against his face and body.

The most nimble of footwork was vital against such a giant. Hal was tiring fast. But the Nubian seemed made of steel springs.

Hal fought on without hope, getting what satisfaction he could out of his punishing blows.

At last, as he slipped between his opponent and the foot of the bed, his foot struck a caster, spinning him half about. In a flash the Nubian gripped his shoulders and yanked him over backward. His head struck the stone floor with a crash.

Before he could stir the man was on top of him, snarling with hate, those terrible hands clutching his throat despite his sudden, thrashing efforts to avoid them.

Dorothy screamed at the top of her voice, flung herself over the foot of the bed and buried both her small hands in the murderer’s hair.

Fighting in vain to draw one breath of air, Hal heard her screams more faintly as the roaring in his ears increased. The room grew dim. Nimbo’s bleeding, snarling face seemed to recede to a vast distance.

With a last shudder he lost consciousness.

Chapter XXVI A Crumpled Fender

The news that Dorothy had been abducted and that McCoy’s men had failed to trace her, left a vibrant silence in Morgan’s office. The columnist was angry — and anxious.

He stared at his companion with eyes that glinted under bushy brows. The police had accomplished nothing in the case. Now they had blundered badly.

But not all the responsibility was theirs.

McCoy and he had blundered at every turn.

Morgan surged to his feet to stride back and forth. A glimmer of white caught his eye. Some one had slipped an envelope under the door. He swooped for it.

The captain needed only the slight stiffening of Morgan’s big body to jump up and look over his shoulder.

Morgan held a card bearing the familiar symbol. Dollar signs and skulls occupied the first seven spaces as before. In the bottom row, where two had been vacant up to now, the middle space contained a cat-o-nine-tails sketched in ink but unmistakable. The final space was still empty.

“Good night!” Morgan rumbled. “This is foul! We’ve got to get those men and get ’em quick!”

“What’s it mean?”

“It means they’ve turned from murder to torture! There’s no time to lose. How long will it take that raid car to get here?”

“Half an hour. Twenty minutes more, maybe.”

“What time is it now?”

McCoy looked at his watch.

“Just on two.”

“Eh? What? — By Gad, Ross—”

Morgan’s face flamed darkly. Dropping the card, he pounced on the classified telephone directory and slapped through its pages. He sat down with the big book open before his eyes and diligently applied himself to the telephone.

His calls completed, he turned to McCoy.

“Ross! Locate the cops who went to the Belmore last night! Let me talk to ’em!”

McCoy called the nearest police station.

“Here,” he growled. “Here’s the sergeant.”

Morgan put a rapid fire of questions that brought the captain upright in his chair, thanked the sergeant, and replaced the receiver.

“Right under their noses!” he snapped.

“What d’ye mean?”

“McHenry! He’s Brooks. And we let him go. Not a woman was admitted last night to any nursing home in the Bronx. But half an hour after the murder, McHenry wheeled his suffering wife out of the hotel while your cops stood by. The sergeant says her face and hands were bandaged. She’s a he, Ross. The murderer was in that chair.”

“But McHenry came down here to help us! He was up at the dam when Evans was murdered—”

“Not he! Why did he wire for a quiet suite? He knew the one across from the Evans’s was empty. He took it to get Evans. He’s played with us like a pair of kids!”

“You think he got Evans out—”

“In that big trunk the sergeant speaks of!”

“If young Evans has been knocked about—”

“He can stand it!” Morgan snapped. “But they’ve got Dorothy Hearn. She’s a girl, Ross! God knows what we’ll see in that last space—”

“Why?” growled McCoy. “Where’s their motive?”

“Damn the motive. We’ve got to save that girl.”

“There’s nothing to do but go out there—”

“Where? Got any program?”

“See that cop at Mount Vernon. Get a description of the car. Look up our patrols out there. What else can we do?”

McCoy was almost humble.

Morgan dropped his head in his hands. Suddenly he sat up with a shout, grabbed the telephone and called his paper.

Five minutes later he hung up in triumph.

“Ross! Can you get hold of a police boat — to meet us at Yonkers? There’s just a chance—”

“Sure I can. What for?”