Get a Load of This

     I resumed my stool and ordered a club sandwich. “Give me the dope, Cap. You're not telling me that you haven't unearthed a lot of stuff what would interest me. I won't print it until you say so. I've been in on this from the start, and I may as well finish it.”

     It took me a little time to handle him, but the red-head threat worked like a charm.

     Rabener, he told me, was the brain behind one of the biggest dope-rings in the country. He used the night-club as a front. He had to have some place where pedlars could come with safety each month to collect the dope. What better place than a well-established, busy night-club? Rabener was a killer too. Years ago he'd been a small-time heist man. His ruthlessness as a killer took him slowly to the top of the ladder of gangdom. He was smart. He always kept in the background. Whereas other big-shots were rounded up by the F.B.I., Rabener managed to keep clear. When repeal came in, he decided to go in for dope. So thorough were his preparations that no one had ever suspected the night-club to be the distributing centre of the dope-ring.

     Somehow or other Fanquist fitted into this picture. The Captain wasn't quite sure where she did fit in. But they couldn't tie her up with the dope traffic. They could get nothing out of her. The smaller members of the ring had vanished. Fanquist was the only one who could enlighten the police, and she wouldn't talk.

     “Maybe she thinks someone will knock her off if she squeals,” I suggested.

     “Yeah, it might be that; but why did she kill Rabener?”

     “I'd like to know too,” I returned. “Think she'll get off?”

     The Captain shrugged. “I don't mind if she does,” he said. “Nice-lookin' dish, ain't she?”

     I agreed very heartily.

     The trial was fixed at last, and the court-room was packed to the ceiling. Strong men trampled on weak women to get in; strong women gave up in despair. It was a real picnic for the men all right. They'd come to see Fanquist, and nothing on two legs would stop them.

     The Judge was a dopey-looking old hound. The D.A. seemed nervous, but the defending counsel was as cocky as hell. There was not one woman on the jury. I thought that it was almost inevitable the Fanquist woman was going to get acquitted.

     I had a front seat, a packet of sandwiches, and a flask of rye. No one was going to stampede me. Jackson, the night editor, was with me. We both felt that we had an interest in the case.

     Fanquist looked good. She sat by her counsel, quiet, still and restful. Boy; how she could dress! Any young dope wanting to know what the female form looked like had only to step up and get an eyeful of Fanquist. He'd learn more in that glance than all the text-books on anatomy could teach him in a year.

     “If I have to watch that dame all day,” the night editor grumbled, “I shall go nuts.”

     I understood how he felt even though he was a coarse-minded slob. I knew the court-room was steamed up to hell.

     The D.A. got to his feet for his opening speech. It lacked the ginger and hate he usually worked into his openers.

     “That guy,” the night editor grumbled, “ain't got his mind on his job. If you ask me, he's worried by his lower nature.”

     It didn't matter how much the D.A. played the killing down, the facts were undeniable. Fanquist had shot Rabener in front of a hundred witnesses. Even if the D.A. didn't want to be responsible for burning her nice little tail, he couldn't very well help himself.

     The counsel for the defence rose to his feet. “Your honour,” he said with a bland look on his face, “before going further with this trial, I would like to ask the District Attorney a question.”

     The Judge told him to go ahead.

     The defence turned to where the D.A. was sitting. “Can you assure me,” he asked, “that the bullet found in Rabener's skull could have been fired from my client's automatic?”

     You could have hung your hat on the silence that followed.

     The D.A. went all colours of the rainbow. He got to his feet with a feeble, “Your honour—I object!”

     The Judge, who had been giving himself an eyeful of Fanquist, looked at him coldly. “I think that is perfectly in order. In fact, I will go further and say it is a very proper question.”

     The defence smiled. “I take it that you are unable to do so,” he said blandly. “In which case, I must ask for an adjournment while this point is verified.”

     The Judge looked at him intently. “Why have you raised this point?” he asked.

     “Your honour,” the defence returned, “my client did not kill Rabener. It will be found that the bullet in Rabener's skull could not possibly have been fired from a small automatic. The bullet, I should imagine, came from a Smith-Wesson revolver. Perhaps at this point I should wait until the bullet has been checked.”

     So the Judge adjourned the Court for two hours.

     It caused a sensation. There wasn't one person who left the building during those two hours' wait; the atmosphere was electric.

     When the Court sat again, I think the only person in the room who wasn't worked up was Fanquist.