Корнелл Вулрич - Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 50, No. 5, October 10, 1936

“Get the hell out of here!” Kibbler snarled. The gun, still warm, was jammed into Sullivan’s neck. “Step on it!”

Sullivan needed no second urging, no spur to goad him into flight. The gears whined, the car fairly leaped ahead under a flood of gas. It skidded perilously around the first corner, straightened out and raced over the cobblestones.

“Okay,” Kibbler said, after they had covered several blocks and were on asphalt again. “Ease off a little.”

The gun was out of Sullivan’s neck now, but his hands were clammy, his face wet with perspiration. The thing that had happened was so monstrous, so revolting, that he shook from the horror of it. It showed up Kibbler for what he was: a vicious, cold-blooded killer who should burn for this night’s work.

“Pull up this side of the café,” Kibbler directed, as they came within sight of it. “Out of the light.”

Sullivan obeyed mechanically. Fulton climbed out, glanced warily up and down the street, took the package and ducked into the areaway. Kibbler alighted and moved up to where Terry sat behind the wheel.

“Sorry I had to throw lead,” he began. “But it had to be Hanson or curtains for us. Don’t start fretting, kid. The bull’s erased and we’re in the clear. Run along now and keep your date.”

But Sullivan locked the car and got out. “I’m in no hurry,” he said. “I could stand a drink.”

Kibbler smiled. “Sure. Come in and I’ll buy.”

They walked side by side along the dark areaway. Sullivan’s knees were shaky and his feet didn’t seem to track so well. Once he stumbled and fell against Kibbler; caught himself and went on.

“Say, you look like a ghost,” Kibbler declared, once they were in the deserted back room. “Pull yourself together!” He opened the door into the café, caught Nick’s attention and held up three fingers. Doc Fulton came down the stairs, empty-handed. Sullivan decided the man occupied one of the rooms above, had cached his package there.

Dope, Detective Brower had intimated, and it might have been, but Sullivan hadn’t paid much attention. It didn’t matter now. It was murder that concerned him, that Kibbler must answer for.

Nick waddled in with the drinks.

“Anybody been around?” Kibbler demanded.

“Nobody,” the proprietor answered. “It’s been quiet.”

Kibbler nodded approvingly. “Good. We’ve been parked here all evening. Remember that.”

“Since supper — playing cards,” Nick said and grinned.

Sullivan welcomed the drink; it warmed his stomach and quieted his jumpy nerves. He couldn’t get the picture of Hanson out of his mind, the last glimpse of him sprawled on the wet cobblestones with the light shining on his white face. Only yesterday the rookie had talked with him at the garage; had been so proud and happy in his new uniform. Now he was gone. It left Sullivan cold with rage, a sense of abject helplessness.

Kibbler looked himself over critically, and Fulton followed his example. Then they sat down at the table, the cards between them. Sullivan did not stir in his chair, did not speak. He watched the men and the cards they dealt, marveling at their calm.

Hell would be popping soon. Swift and relentless would be the vengeance of the police when one of their comrades had been cut down. Brower would be quick to suspect and act.

“Say!” Kibbler exploded presently. “Either pull yourself together or scram! You give me the jitters squatting there with a dead pan. Come out of it, kid! If some dick barges in—”

The rear door opened and a thin, putty-faced man, breathing hard, slid into the room.

“Listen, Lew!” he gulped. “Thought you’d want to know. That bull didn’t croak soon enough. He spilled the license number.”

Kibbler’s eyes narrowed. “Sure of that?”

“I was there listenin’,” the newcomer hurried on. “A watchman stumbles over the copper just after you pulls out. I’d heard the shots, suspected there’d been trouble, but I wasn’t showin’ myself. I let the watchman do the investigatin’ and call me. Another bull charges up, and I was right on the spot, playin’ dumb, when the plugged copper babbles. He kept repeatin’ the number over and over like a busted record. Then the ambulance rolls up and the doc works over the guy, but he’s gone then.”

“Funny, ain’t it?” Fulton said. “If the watchman had stayed away a couple more minutes the copper would have been cold and the police be wrestling with a mystery. It’s them little things that’s always upsetting apple-carts.”

The man in the doorway bobbed his head. “Sure; that’s right. Just a couple more minutes. Whose car was you usin’, Lew?”

Kibbler nodded casually toward Sullivan. “His.”

The three eyed Sullivan. He sat white and rigid, his heart thumping queerly, staring past the men. The thing that happened wasn’t wholly unexpected.

“A tough break, kid,” Kibbler said finally. “You’ll have to blow. You’ll have a good hour’s jump on the cops. Take them some time to check back on the tag.”

The informer, who must have been the man, from whom Kibbler secured the package, backed through the doorway and disappeared. Obviously he preferred to be elsewhere.

Kibbler eased a roll of bank notes from his pocket, skinned off several, tossed them upon the table. “This’ll help. Get out of town and lay low for a while. I’ll keep you posted.”

“I don’t want your money,” Sullivan said.

“Don’t be a sap! You’ll need some jack before this blows over. And better leave your bus.”

“I’m leaving it.”

Kibbler gathered up the currency. “If that damned watchman had held off snooping, you—”

“You need lessons in shooting,” Sullivan gibed. “You didn’t get Brower three months ago and you didn’t shut Hanson’s mouth soon enough tonight.”

“And I didn’t use my own bus either time,” Kibbler retorted. “I usually look far enough ahead.”

Sullivan’s voice remained steady. “One of these days somebody’s going to look just a little further ahead, Lew. And put this in your book. Sometimes a cat’s paw can scratch.”

“Aw, stop preaching!” Kibbler grimaced. “Start traveling. And don’t get any funny ideas in your head.” He got to his feet. “Understand? If you’re bagged, you’ll burn. Squealing won’t save your face or blast me. It’ll be your word against mine — and I’ll have a flock of witnesses. Put that in your book, sap!”

Sullivan rose slowly, from his chair, his fists knotted, undismayed by Kibbler’s threat.

“Got any more advice to offer?”

“What you stalling about?” Kibbler snarled. “I’m trying to help you and you stand there gabbing. Shake a leg out of here. You give me a pain in the neck!”

“Maybe this’ll cure it,” Sullivan responded.

His fist shot out, landed on Kibbler’s jaw. It was a solid blow, backed by a husky arm and toughened knuckles. The surprised victim grunted, thudded against the wall and slid to the floor. Fulton bounded halfway out of his chair, but prudently sank back again.

For a moment Sullivan contemplated the sprawled form, then strode across the room, opened the door and banged it behind him.

It was raining a little now, and the pavements glistened under the myriad street lights. Clem Brower would not be outside in this weather, Sullivan reflected, and promptly set a course for the detective’s nearby apartment.

In the back room of the Ajax Café, Kibbler slowly picked himself off the floor, spluttering oaths, a hand clapped to his bruised and swollen jaw.

Nick appeared. “W-what’s happened?” he stammered, alarmed by the picture that greeted him.

Between outbursts of profanity, Kibbler told him.