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

Still grinning, he cocked his head to one side and regarded me in mock dismay.

“Tut, tut, my friend. You have a nasty temper. You really ought to do something about it.”

I pointed to the door.

“Get out!”

He dropped a bundle of my shirts and swaggered past me.

“Of course you know what I’m here for?” he suggested. “Might I hint that you should return my property to me and save yourself trouble, or will your violent disposition stand for such an idea?”

“Get out,” I repeated, “and get out quick. I promised a certain lady that I would shoot the next intruder in my home. The only reason I have not kept my promise is that I lack a weapon.”

The huge young man paused on the landing.

“Perhaps you are better off,” he reflected. “Stick to the hypodermic, doctor. It’s easier to handle and less dangerous. You have a way with you, haven’t you? You are really a very clever fellow. I should like to see more of you, and something tells me that I will. By God, I believe I am going to have some fun out of this yet.”

And with that he slapped me cordially on the back, turned quickly and stamped down the stairs, laughing in a great good humor. His robust bellow filled the lower hall. Then the door slammed and he was gone. When I got downstairs there was no sign of the old man. I sat down in my empty office and turned the day’s events over in my mind. It had been a neat ruse. They had taken me in with ease. What would the next move be?

I decided that it was my turn now, so l clapped on my hat and hustled off to see Dr. Turner about taking over my practice and found him, as I had expected, agreeable to the proposition. We soon came to an arrangement that would allow me at least two weeks of freedom.

With that settled, I returned to the house to plan my campaign. The first thing I needed was an assistant. I realized how poorly equipped I was to cope with the ingenious scoundrels who sought the black capsule. Who could help me? There was Higgins, the lawyer. Too cold and businesslike. He would probably want to know how much his fee would be. Young Brillers at the bank might do, but he was tied down with a wife and children.

I cast my mind back to college days. Who was the wildest, most adventurous youngster in the school? I had it. Heywood, the president of my class. A harum-scarum chap he was, and I felt sure that my mystery would appeal to him. I telephoned to the dub and learned that he had last been heard from as a newspaper reporter for the Globe.

“Sort of dropped out around here,” said my informant. “Guess his pocketbook wouldn’t stand it, you know.”

I called the paper and left word with the city editor to have Heywood drop in at my house.

“Something very important,” said I by way of whetting that gentleman’s curiosity.

Chapter V My Choice Was Wise

It was late in the afternoon when Heywood arrived. He came striding into the library and greeted me much as though we had been seeing each other quite regularly. A tall, rawboned man, slightly stooped, and with a prominent nose toward which all his features seemed to run, Heywood had the nervous, eager look of a fellow who was searching for something.

He helped himself to a cigar, took a chair, and gazed at me thoughtfully for a moment. Then he shot out an abrupt question:

“Well, doc, old sawbones, what’s biting you?”

“Bored with life,” said I. “Wearied to death by gabby old women, sad-eyed old men, silly young women, and bawling infants. Sick of the grind.”

Heywood laughed dryly.

“That, I fear, is a universal complaint. Am I the antidote in this case?”

“You are.”

“Hum. Well, it won’t take me long to prescribe my remedy. Banish that worried expression. Grab your hat. We’ll play pop goes the weasel and give this sad burg the once over. Let’s go.”

“I believe,” said I, “that I have something better.”

“Impossible,” he snorted. “A man of your limited experience couldn’t do it. Why, I know every dive in town. I even know a bootlegger who sells stuff guaranteed to improve the eyesight. Beat that if you can.”

“I can,” said I.

“Say.” Heywood sat up in his chair. “Have you really got something serious on your mind? I thought you had got to browsing on our days at school and were looking for a skipping partner. Are you in trouble?”

“Not yet, but I hope to be, before long. Heywood, have you ever tried to solve a crime?”

He gave me a hard look. An abashed grin was upon his face.

“How did you guess that I had turned sleuth? I get all that kind of stuff down at the Globe — murders, suicides, kidnapings, and the like. I’ve untangled some of them, too. It’s quite interesting to see what a little concentration will do. Doc, you and some of the other fellows may be headed toward success, but I am really seeing and enjoying life, although I live like a fireman and work like a dog.”

“Fine,” said I. “Great. You’ll be the very man to help me out.”

“Not so fast,” objected my friend. “What the hell’s this all about? Are you going to buy a pair of rubber heels and turn detective or have you killed somebody?”