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

The doorbell rang. Dorothy slipped out of his arms and went to answer it.

Morgan walked in, looked at their flushed faces and the light in their eyes and shrugged his shoulders.

“Guess there’s not a thing I can do for you,” he grumbled.

“There’s... there’s one thing that puzzles me,” Dorothy stammered. “How could Wallace know that Judge Moreland was my godfather and that I used to eat mud pies?”

“The first is pure invention, my dear. A Judge Moreland does live in Baltimore. Elder wired him. He never met your father.

“The other was a guess, because Wallace left this country before you were born. Most children eat dirt at some early stage in their careers, especially girls, they say.

“I suppose they want to see what it tastes like and make the men eat it when they are older. Of course, your father had friends who gave you pennies.”

“You’re sure it’s all right for mother and me to keep that money?” Hal demanded.

“Right as rain. Pap-something-or-other was an orphan and probably illegitimate. His government collars the huge bank account he had in Nice and the one Wallace had here. They’re more than satisfied.

“Before Pap sold his wife into slavery, it seems he made a will in her favor and that of her children. With all four of them dead, Wallace would inherit from the children as next of kin. There was plenty for Wallace to leave you what he did.

“Oh, yes, I just called to say that after legal representations, Pap’s government have agreed to leave a hundred thousand dollars to you, Miss Hearn, by way of slight restitution.”

“Oh, my goodness!” cried Dorothy.

“Anything else?” inquired Morgan restlessly.

“Just our thanks to you. We want to forget—”

“I like that! When I planned all that fracas out there to bring you two together!”

Hal burst out laughing.

“Your method was a bit painful! We would have found each other anyway! It’s written in the stars!”

“There’s gratitude for you!” Morgan grumbled.

He had taken a licking over the case. His failure to save them suffering made him want to demonstrate a very real humbleness. But he did not know how to go about it.

“Well, I’ll leave you together,” he growled. “I’ll leave your door on the latch for myself, too.

“In the meantime, I have a little work of my own to do, though I can never make McCoy realize it!

“So — God bless you, my children!” He lumbered out again.

Why Do They Go? by G. Haines Trimingham

Matty had an idea why men went for the gangster’s “ride,” but he was dead wrong about it...

I

“Yea, Spike, you know all about it, don’tcha!” retorted Matty Wilkins with obvious irony. “Go ahead and tell me!”

“Havin’ nerve ain’t got nuthin’ to do wid it,” insisted the other man. “It’s hopin’ until the last minute, I guess. And maybe most of them would rather take it where they have some soft grass to fall on.” The speaker’s laugh was not pleasant.

“Bunk! All I can say is that they must be a bunch of saps to go on a ride, with a mighty broad streak of yellow, or they’d take it right then and there — or else shoot it out.”

The stocky man called Spike laughed again. “There ain’t no use tryin’ to convince you. How many of these rides have you seen pulled?”

“None.” Wilkins seemed ashamed to admit the fact. “But I’ve heard about dozens of them. And I’m damned curious.”

“I guess you have to be shown, that’s all. Too bad you can’t get a chance to sit in on one.”

“Ain’t it.”

“I know one what’s gonna be pulled to-morrow and I was asked to handle it, but I’ve been layin’ low lately and I didn’t make no promises. If they raise their ante and are willin’ to get another man, I might change my mind.”

“What’s it pay?” Wilkins asked casually, striking a match.

“Only a half grand,” Spike growled. “It ain’t enough.”

“I wouldn’t mind pickin’ it up. Get them up to six hundred and see if you can horn me in. I’ll let you have the extra jack.”

“No kiddin’, I didn’t know that was part of your racket, Matty. What’s the trouble?”

“I’ll explain it in a letter,” laughed Wilkins. “I’m on the level about this. Can you work it for me?”

“I doubt it. You ain’t so well known. There ain’t no harm tryin’, though. You kin be the third man... I tell you, meet me in the Acme pool room about this time to-morrow afternoon an’ maybe I can fix it up.”

II

“Hello, Spike!” smiled Wilkins, laying down his cue. “How’d you make out?”

“Better than I expected. It’s okay. When you finish the game, we’ll go.”

“It’s finished now.” Wilkins flung a dollar on the green felt. “Let’s go.”

“The other guy is right outside waitin’,” Spike told him when they were on the stairs. “Don’t say a word. I’ll do all the talkin’ till we get on the road. You’ve got a rod, ain’tcha?”

Wilkins nodded.

“This is Matty,” was all Spike said to the man at the wheel. The driver did not even glance at him.

“Uhuh,” he grunted. He let in the clutch and the big sedan glided away.