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

“McHenry’s our man. He had to be at the dam every day. How could he strike down here and get back there by morning? And what an alibi! — Only a plane, Ross. But no plane could land in that rough country. He had to have water — and a seaplane. My people looked it up on a big map. There’s a little lake not far above the dam but less accessible. That’s where your murderer went when they lost track of him up there—”

“Still I don’t get the police boat idea—”

“That dark-blue car is up the Hudson somewhere! McHenry’s through at the dam. He’d bring his plane away so it wouldn’t be found there. He has to come down on water. If we go up by water, there’s a chance we may see his plane!”

“Right! But I’m sending that carload of police by road as well. I’m counting on those patrols. If we both have luck, we can take him from both sides—”

Morgan nodded impatiently. McCoy called headquarters, ordered a police boat, told Burke to send out a general order to pick up McHenry, and asked for news.

“Nothing new on the big case, sir,” Burke reported.

“Well, send out an order to watch for a big trunk. McHenry had one with him.”

“A park patrolman found a big trunk in Central Park this morning. No shelves or drawers. Pierced with air-holes—”

“That’s the trunk! Why didn’t they report it to police headquarters at once?”

“They did, captain. You hadn’t mentioned a trunk—”

“That’s right. My fault. Get that police boat started for Yonkers as quickly as possible, will you?”

The Force loved McCoy because he played fair.

Morgan was calling Mount Vernon when they heard the siren of their raid car in the street far below. The motor cycle cop was conscious again and they could see him.

Their progress northward to the Boston Road was a thing of sound and fury. McCoy led in his own car which Hardy drove. The raid car followed. Both sirens blared as they tore through the streets. Morgan was glad to have it so. Any one who saw them would think they were going all the way by road.

At the hospital, McCoy was led at once to the ward where his patrolman lay.

The man looked up with sullen apology in his eyes.

The captain grinned and touched his shoulder.

“Tough luck, Smith. Let’s hear the story.”

Smith lay back and looked his gratitude.

“That girl came out with an elderly man. They took a taxi. I trailed ’em. They stopped uptown a ways and let the taxi go. I watched ’em through a long lobby and took a couple a’ corners in time to see ’em pulling away in a big blue car. That looked fishy — the change and the blue car — but you said just trail ’em. Of course, I got the number.”

He repeated it. McCoy wrote it down.

“Right. Then what?”

“I followed ’em uptown, keeping back. They crossed the Harlem toward Mount Vernon. I closed in a bit. I noticed they was on good terms. The girl had her head on his shoulder.”

Morgan suppressed a groan at this point.

“Well, sir, they turned into a side road that leads over to Yonkers. It winds a lot and I had to close in for fear of losing ’em. I figured they’d take me for a civilian now, anyway. But they must have seen me earlier. I took a curve fast and there was the car pulled up across the road. I hit the front fender. That’s all I remember until I woke up here a while ago.”

“All right,” nodded McCoy, rising. “Anything you need?”

“Not a thing, sir, thanks! I’m sorry—”

“Forget it and get well. Come on, Morgan.”

In a few minutes they were speeding toward Yonkers. There Hardy stopped long enough for Morgan and McCoy to get out, then tore northward again, leading the raid car.

The police boat was waiting. McCoy took command and they shot away up river, putting on speed until a bow wave of clear water hissed high to port and starboard.

Soon after they passed Irvington, Morgan got his companion to pull in and hug the east shore.

The grim walls of Sing Sing swung into sight, rose high above them, slipped past. Suddenly Morgan shouted.

“See that old dock? Pull in closer—”

The wheel was put over. The boat careened as she veered to starboard, nearer the shore. Drawing close, they saw that the wharf was old, belonging to a disused factory.

“Here we are!” cried Morgan. “Look!”

A road dipped down a ravine toward the wharf. At one time it had crossed the railroad lines. Old planking led across the tracks. More recently, the fence that guarded the right of way had been built across the road.

Now something had torn through that fence, flinging its woven wires to left and right. And just clear of the tracks lay a crumpled, dark-blue fender.

As the boat pulled cautiously alongside the wharf, they noticed that a post at the end of it had been broken off short very recently, for the splinters were bright yellow.

They landed and hurried across the tracks. Chips of dark-blue paint clung to the broken wires of the fence.

One of the men in the boat called to them and pointed. In the eddy downstream floated a black leather cushion.

“Out of control!” rasped McCoy. “They’re drowned!”