I'll Get You For This

  The men crawled across the dance floor, crept to the windows and began pouring lead into the night. A sudden yell outside proved they knew their job.

  "We might take a little walk before long," I said. "I'm getting tired of staying one place."

  "Ready when you are," Hoskiss said, pulling a Mauser pistol from his hip pocket. He thumbed down the safety catch.

  The red-head squeaked, "Don't leave me," grabbed at him. He threw her arms off impatiently.

  "Lay off," he said roughly. "I got work to do now, Tate."

  Speratza had vanished. I could hear shooting going on at the back of the building. There were yells. It sounded like a break-in.

  "Think your boys will take any action?" I whispered.

  "They're on the job now," Hoskiss said, cocking an ear. "I recognize the sound of a Mauser any place. Hark."

  We could hear a lot of shooting going on outside.

  "That's fine," I said. "In your official capacity I guess you wouldn't hesitate to shoot if anyone looked troublesome?"

  "You bet I'd shoot," he said.

  "In that case, brother, you'd better go first. I'll cover your rear."

  "If you want to lead, go ahead," he said hastily. "I'll take full responsibility for any deaths you cause."

  Put like that I hadn't the heart to refuse. I dived for the door, passed into the main hall.

  A dim shape standing by the front door twisted round, fired. I felt the wind from the slug fan my face. I shot the dim shape through the head.

  "You see how it is," I said apologetically to Hoskiss. "People just naturally shoot at me."

  "Don't let it grieve you," Hoskiss said, peering round the hall. "You go ahead. You're faster with a gun than I am. I want to come out of this alive."

  There didn't seem any further opposition in the hall. I made for the door at the foot of the stairs.

  "This way, pal," I said. "Be ready for action."

  I pushed open the door, faced a flight of stairs leading down into a dimly lit basement.

  I walked down the stairs, making no more noise than a breath of wind. Hoskiss kept at my heels.

  We reached the bottom of the stairs, moved along a passage. I pointed to a thick electric cable running along the wall near the ceiling. Hoskiss nodded, grinned.

  At the end of the passage was a door. I paused outside, listened. I couldn't hear anything.

  "Shall we go in?" I whispered in Hoskiss's ear.

  "I suppose so," he said. "G-men always go in."

  I turned the handle, pushed.

  The room was big; elaborately equipped with printing presses. Green shaded lights illuminated the stacks of banknotes piled neatly on benches.

  A dead man lay on the floor near the printing press. He had been shot. A small blue-red hole showed in the exact centre of his forehead.

  Ed. Killeano knelt on the floor against the far wall. His fat face was yellow and glistening with fear. His pudgy hands were shoulder high, and his eyes started from his head like long stalked toadstools. Clairbold, the intrepid private investigator, complete with his cocoacoloured trick hat, stood over him, a Colt .45 in his small hand.

"Take him away," Killeano screamed at us as we came in. "Make him put that gun down."

Hoskiss and I walked over.

  "Hello, Fatso," I said. "Don't you like our young friend?" I touched Clairbold on his shoulder. "What are you doing here, bright eyes?"

  "Call him off!" Killeano shrieked. "Get that gun away!"

  Clairbold lowered the gun, cleared his throat apologetically. "I'm glad you've come, Mr. Cain," he said. "I was wondering what I should do with this—er—man."

  Hoskiss ran his fingers through his hair. "Who's this guy?" he asked blankly.

  "The greatest private dick since Philo Vance," I said.

  Killeano made a sudden dive across the desk, reached for a sheet of paper. Hoskiss flung him back.

  "Take it easy," he said. "Park your truss until I can get around to you."

  Killeano snarled at him, wrung his hands.

  Clairbold picked up the sheet of paper, blushed, shuffled his feet.

  "I have a statement here," he said, handing me the paper. "It completely clears you, Mr. Cain. This man admits that Bat Thompson killed Herrick, Giles and Brodey, acting on his orders. They knew about the forgery plant. Killeano also admits he is responsible for issuing forged currency. I think you'll find it in order."

  Dazed, I read the statement. It was a beautifully worded confession. Silently I handed it to Hoskiss who read it, said, "For God's sake!"

  "I deny every word of it," Killeano babbled. "He was going to shoot me!"

  "How did you persuade him to write this?" I asked Clairbold.

  He fingered his tie nervously.

  "I really don't understand it myself, Mr. Cain," he said, puzzled. "I think perhaps he was

frightened my gun wasn't safe." He shook his head. "He could be right because it went off unexpectedly when that man rushed in." He waved his hand at the body by the printing plant. "Killeano thought I might shoot him accidentally. He was quite mistaken, of course, but when I suggested he might care to make a statement he seemed most anxious to do so."

  I looked at Hoskiss, who burst out laughing.