Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

“Just a minute, Rita, darling!” I said, sweet like, loosening her arms and getting to my feet. “I’ve got to leave you for a few seconds. I’ll be back later!”

Rita gave me the grandest smile. “Don’t forget! Come back as soon as the police go! Rita will be waiting with kisses. And the magic — it is not yet finished!”

“Don’t worry that I’ll forget!” I blarneyed, thinking of my forty bucks — also a few more of those kisses. “I’ll be right back just as soon as this row’s over!”

As I came running toward the sheriff, I saw that gray-eyed beezer touch his arm.

“There he is — your man!” I heard him say, pointing his finger right at me. “He’s the fellow that robbed the freight station!”

I’d never given fellows like him the credit of even as much guts as that, and it made me boiling mad.

“You damn low-down skunk!” I shouted, leaping across the ground and grabbing him by the throat. “I’ll choke your black tongue out of your head!”

But before I got him down on his knees, that whole rube army of the sheriff’s was on top of me. When they piled off, I was wearing a pair of bracelets.

By that time, I was so mad that I was sizzling. They stood around me, the sheriff with his gray Buffalo Bill whiskers reaching almost to his pot belly, and the rest of his hayseed outfit grinning like fools.

“You damn dumb-bells!” I screamed. “Don’t you know I’m the State cop from over at the Coalville barracks?”

I saw the gray-eyed gink’s face kind of twitch, just like things weren’t going to suit him. He started to fidget around on his feet.

“No matter who he says he is,” he sort of mumbled, “why don’t you search him?”

“Not a bad idea ’tall!” the sheriff spouted. “Here, Silas, give me a hand!”

IV

While I lay there on the ground, handcuffed and raving, the sheriff and his man Silas went through me from head to foot. It didn’t take them long to yank out my automatic. And then their fingers struck the roll sewed up inside of my coat.

When the sheriff called for a knife to cut open the stitches, I got all over my grouch and started to laugh to myself. I could picture just how foolish he’d look when he pulled out that wad of blank paper. I kidded him about taking care not to cut the bills when he started out with the knife. He got kind of mad, and told me to shut up.

Then he gets the pocket cut open and sticks in his hand. I sets myself to give him a big roar.

When his fist came out, all doubled up tight, I let her go. I bet you could hear that laugh for a mile.

But when his fingers opened up, that laugh stopped quick! It turned into a gag — then into a choke. Nestled right there in the sheriff’s horny hand was a big roll — and it wasn’t a phony roll, either! I could catch a big fifty on the bill wrapped on the outside.

In a second the sheriff had slipped off the rubber band and began counting the bunch of real money.

“Eight hundred and ten dollars!” he at last sang out, his voice trilling like a guy’s what’s praising himself. “The exact amount to a penny that was stolen from the Greenwood freight house.”

The sheriff wheels around to that gray-eyed gazabo and sticks out his hand. “Mighty glad for your help. The captain promised to send over a good man. And he did. I knew you were the right State cop for the job the minute I laid my eyes on you.”

“Don’t mention it, sheriff,” the fellow muttered, letting go of the sheriff’s hand quick. “I’m only too glad to help. Since you got your man, I’ll be moving along — lots of things to do yet, to-day, you know.”

“Sorry you can’t stick around a little while,” the sheriff breezed. “I was figuring to scare up a little drink.”

“Don’t be a plump lunkhead altogether, sheriff,” I screams out. “He’s no more of a State cop than he’s a gypsy. I’m the State cop from the Coalville barracks. He’s the crook!”

The sheriff and his men just laughed till they shook.

“That’s the best I ever heard,” the sheriff bursts out. “Can you imagine anything like that a State copper! I do believe the fellows off his head along with being a crook!”

“Since when do the State police carry these new fangled shooting irons?” one of the sheriff’s men joshed, holding out my automatic.

“And if you’re a State trooper, let’s see your badge, captain,” kidded another.

“Never mind about the shooting iron and the badge,” I shouts back. “But I tell you I’m the State trooper — and a sergeant at that.”

“I’m Napoleon, only I don’t have on my cocked hat,” the sheriff laughs. “But since you had the dough, you can tell the judge you’re Cal Coolidge for all of me.”

By that time I was so fighting mad that I was chewing up my own tongue. “Go to hell, all of you!” I roars out. “You’re the dumbest bunch of animals I ever seen!”

The sheriff reaches out with his hobnailed foot and gives me a stiff boot. “Shut up!” he hollered at the top of his voice. “If you don’t keep quiet, I’ll smash you over the head!”

“Guess you can handle him all right, sheriff,” the gray-eyed shyster speaks up, edging away from the crowd. “I’ll be on my way.”