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

“It ain’t far,” remarked Spike. “You’ll see I ain’t been kiddin’ you about it bein’ easy.” He fished in his ‘pocket and brought forth a sizable roll of bills. “Hold your hand.”

Some twenty minutes later they pulled up before what was ostensibly an express office, but which had none of the marks of a thriving business.

“Come on!” said Spike. “Better pull down to the corner, Jake. We won’t be long if he’s in. An’ I got reason to know we ain’t gonna be disappointed.”

Spike found a button set in an inconspicuous place near the door, but almost beyond arm’s reach. It was evident he knew the place well, for the door opened almost immediately and they stepped into a long, narrow room, illuminated only by the light filtering through the buff paint and dirt which covered the windows.

“How’s tricks, Tony?” began Spike, addressing a dark man whose smile revealed a perfect set of gleaming teeth.

“Can’t kick. Eighteen cases this week. Pickings are good.”

“But they won’t be for long,” smirked Spike. Wilkins saw his right hand go into a coat pocket. “I’ve got you covered, Tony! My boss wants to see you.”

“The hell you say!” Tony leaped for a dust covered shelf, but Spike was quicker.

“No, you don’t,” the gunman snapped. “Frisk him, Matty. Maybe he’s got another stuck in his belt.”

Matty followed the order while Tony glared and cursed.

“What’s it all about?”

“Can’t you guess? Never mind that. Would you like to write a note to the ball and chain? I’ll give you time. Five minutes. How about it?”

“She don’t mean much to me, but I better drop her a note at that. If—”

“Don’t forget I’ll give it the once over. Better not say too much,” Spike advised.

They both stood guard over him with drawn revolvers while the palpably distraught man scribbled a few lines to his wife. Then, with the gun concealed in his coat pocket, Spike prodded him through the doorway. “Don’t try to pull nothin’ in the street,” he warned. “We won’t leave you until you’re pumped full of lead so you can’t be tellin’ no tales. An’ don’t forget to lock the door.”

III

The four were speeding up Second Avenue before Wilkins had time to consume the cigarette he had lighted in the speakeasy. Tony sat quietly in the tonneau beside Spike. None of them had spoken until the car swung onto the Grand Concourse. Tony asked where he was being taken.

“What does it matter? You’ll soon find out.”

Up the Bronx River Parkway they sped. It was sunset and October had been lavish with its colors on the trees. The air was sparkling and Wilkins felt at peace with the world and his companions.

“Have a smoke!” he invited Tony.

“Thanks. I left mine in the store. Too much excitement.”

“Uhuh. But it’s not bothering you none,” Wilkins remarked.

“Why let it?”

The conversation proceeded easily and Wilkins became filled with admiration for the man. He exhibited genuine courage.

“Here we are!” said Spike suddenly, as the car came to a stop atop the Kensico reservoir. “Pretty view, ain’t it? Let’s make it snappy! We just timed it right. It’s gettin’ dark... You stand here, Matty... Tony, you come wid me... About three feet. Right!”

“What’s the idea!” exclaimed Wilkins, as the powerful spot light was focused directly into his eyes. Something hard was prodding into his back.

“Drop the rod!” commanded Jake.

“What the—” snapped Wilkins, a terrible suspicion dawning.

“Yea,” laughed Spike. “Ain’t it a surprise? It was a big surprise to poor Red, too, I guess when you put him on the spot. But his pals ain’t the kind to forget. That light makes you a swell target. You fell for it easy. Now you know why they go, Matty. But you’re not gonna tell nobody.”

Tony joined in the laugh.

Moonshine by H. M. Sutherland

When a murder suspect joins in the hunt for clews a sheriff must uncover his evidence carefully...

I

Sheriff Rutherford sprawled in his chair with his feet on his desk, mopping his beaded brow every few minutes with a large bandanna. The first sultry day of early summer was sending shimmering heat waves upward from the row of tin roofs across the street just beyond which the purpling Cumberlands towered majestically. Staring at them speculatively, Rutherford shivered. Somewhere in the depths of those wooded shadows lurked the deadly, stalking figure of Hook-Dave Hall, that ghostly, enigmatical killer of the Devil’s Apron country whom all men feared.

Bart Cantrell, youngest deputy of the sheriff’s staff, was leaning across the table, tense and eager, watching Rutherford’s face expectantly. A lithe, tawny youth, his steel-gray eyes narrowed, his muscles corded with the excitement under which he labored, courage and determination were delineated in his every feature, confidence seemed to ooze from every pore.