Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927
- Автор: Valentine, Corley H. W.
- Год: 1927
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927». Краткое содержание книги:
McArthur was called at once to Steele’s office.
“Are you going to try it?” he asked, when he heard the news.
“Not immediately,” replied the head of the agency. “But we should be ready to act at an hour’s notice. I hear that Mr. Wilton cannot be expected back for at least a week, but one never knows.”
“You’ve made up your mind positively that he’s the guilty one, then?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Steele, in his expressionless manner. “But one fact is certain: he cannot be blamed for it while he is ill at home.”
He sent a telegram to New York for Marvin, and another to Chicago for Bolton.
Chapter XLI
Williams Keeps a Date
Topper Drohan was in a strange and savage humor. He had threatened two of his friends when they had invited him to supper at the Canton, and he had knocked down his landlady because a leaking gutter had spoiled his ceiling. These actions were so unlike Drohan’s usual manner that his associates were deeply puzzled. They were much concerned, too, for the bootlegger had a transaction of the gravest importance to complete.
John Castle and his brother, Ed. both argued with him, telling him that he must be “feelin’ tough,” and that it would be wiser to let some one else keep the appointment and obtain the promised “info.” Drohan retorted angrily that he had made the bargain possible, and that he was “going to handle it,” or there would be strained relations between his forces and the Castle gang.
Neither John Castle nor Ed could afford that. The bootlegger brought his sedan out, giving vent to foul and ferocious language when he heard the rattling, labored sound of the motor.
“She’s dry, Topper.” one of the gangsters offered, solicitously.
“All right! I’ll get more oil.”
“It’s the radiator,” John Castle ventured, picking up a can.
Drohan rocked him with an uppercut, almost knocking him off his feet.
“Get t’ hell out o’ here!” he commanded glaring.
He got into the car and started in the direction of Columbia Street. He knew that he was late, and he drove recklessly. Halfway to his destination, his machine side-swiped a small touring car, but he continued without stopping. There was big money upon his person, and it wouldn’t pay to take chances. At Dover Street he narrowly avoided running down a woman and a child.
It was ten minutes after the appointed hour when he pulled sharply to the curb in front of Conlon’s pool room. A young man wearing a cap and a light gray overcoat was standing in the doorway. He recognized Drohan at once and came forward.
“I don’t want to get in here,” Arthur Williams said nervously. “Some one might see me. Drive up to Albion Avenue and Danforth, and I’ll take a cab up.”
“All right, make it snappy,” returned the other.
The detective signaled a taxicab, wondering at the peculiar way that Drohan had stared at him. He rode to the designated corner, and found the bootlegger waiting there.
Drohan flung open the door. “Well — have you got the dope? Got the info? Got it straight?”
“Yes; I’ve got it,” Williams replied, instinctively glancing around the square. “But we mustn’t sit here and talk. Drive out of town a little distance.”
The bootlegger slipped in his clutch and turned up the avenue.
“You say you’ve got it?” His voice was eager and tense.
“Yes. But what about the cash?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got the cash right on me.”
“You’ve got ten thousand here?”
“Sure. Ten grand is nothing.”
Williams sniffed. “What’s burning?”
“It’s this damned motor,” explained the other.
“I thought so. Better be careful or you’ll burn a bearing.”
“Aw, to hell wit’ it! Now, we ain’t got no time to lose, Artie. Might as well get busy and spill the works.”
“Oh, but how about the money first?”
“Nothing doing.”
The detective looked at him. There was something in Drohan’s manner which made him a trifle uneasy.
“Well, what about half first and the other half after I talk?”
“How do I know you’ve got any info at all?” the bootlegger countered.
This was a delicate point for Williams. He wasn’t sure that he had enough to satisfy the other.
“I can tell you what you wanted to know,” he assured him. “I can tell you how Bolton and Marvin got their evidence.”
Drohan appeared thoughtful, and they rode in silence for a minute.
Albion Avenue runs far out into the suburbs, but at this time a section was closed for repair. It was barricaded, and a sign pointed to the left. Drohan made the turn, but found himself on a dark street leading past the Meganset bridge. He stopped, turned the car, and crossed to the opposite side of the avenue. Here, owing to the melting snow from the hill, the street was flooded. He turned again, quite hastily, and drove back the way they had come.
He looked behind twice; and suddenly Williams understood the strange expression in his eyes. It was fear that he saw there, unmistakably. But fear of whom? Of what?
The detective began to notice a high, thin rattling from the motor. The burning smell was stronger than before.
“We’d better stop,” he cautioned. “You’ll start a bearing.”
There was a small service station on the right. Drohan turned in. applying his brakes. An attendant in uniform came out.
“Oil,” said the bootlegger.
“Oil? Yes, sir. How much, please?”
“I don’t know. It’ll take plenty, I guess.”
The attendant raised the hood and investigated.
“No, sir; it’s full of oil. Must be the radiator—”
“Never mind the radiator! Give me another quart of oil.”
The man looked at him doubtfully. “It’s full already—”
“Well, then, put in a quart of extra heavy.”
In an uncertain manner, the attendant obeyed. He took up a can from beside the gasoline pump. “I think your trouble is in the radiator, sir—”
“Get out o’ here, you stiff!” roared Drohan. “Here’s your money. I said I wanted oil, not advice!”
He drove on, and left the man gaping.
“Now, Artie, we ain’t got all night,” the bootlegger urged again. “Come on — spill the works. What you got?”
“No — I want half of the money first.”
“Oh, all right, all right! Have it your way!” And once more Drohan put on his brakes.
The avenue was nearly deserted. Taking a thick roll from an inside pocket, he counted off fifty new hundred-dollar bills, while the detective watched closely.
“There you are — take it. And now come across, or you won’t get the rest.” Williams thrust the money out of sight.
“What I know is this,” he stated rapidly. “Bolton and Marvin, our men, got the evidence against Harrison’s by doing some sleight of hand, some magic. Something the boss taught them—”
“Ye small gods!” ejaculated Drohan.
“Why — does that help you?”
“Does it help me!” shouted the other, staring at him in the light from the dashboard.
“Ssh!”
“Well — that doll-faced spalpeen!” the bootlegger cried. “The dirty, double crossing stool pigeon!”
“Who? Bolton?”
“Not... not Bolton! Not Marvin! The rotten, smooth, sky-piloting kite! By God, they’ll cut his heart out!”