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

“And get a load of this,” he rasped, leveling a finger at the gaping proprietor. “If you’re quizzed, you; haven’t seen Jerry Sullivan since supper. Stick to that. He never was with us, and we haven’t been off the premises. That register?”

The Greek’s beady eyes filled with understanding. “Sure.”

“I’d have poked that bozo,” Fulton growled, “only I didn’t want to start any more rumpus; I might have laid him out, but we’d have had him on our hands, and that wouldn’t be so sweet if a dick blew in. The farther away he gets, the better.”

“He’s scared stiff and he’s going to travel fast,” Kibbler declared. “He’d better. He knows he can’t clear himself. The cops will find his car. They’ll find blood on the running board. I saw it there. And In slipped my rod under the seat, alter wiping off the fingerprints.”

“Neat work,” Fulton approved.

“Experts can tell from a bullet what gun it was shot from,” Kibbler added.

Fulton chuckled. “You’re plenty smart, Lew.”

“Well, I keep looking ahead all the time — just in case. Shoot us a couple drinks, Nick. And don’t forget what I told you.”

It was half an hour later that Detective Brower limped into the café pressed on into the back room where Kibbler and his companion were pegging a game of cribbage. Two hefty uniformed officers were with Him. The Ajax proprietor, slipping from behind his cash register, tailed at their heels.

The first thing the officers did was to fan both highly indignant card players. Neither was armed, which occasioned no surprise on the part of Brower and his somber henchman.

“What the hell’s the big idea?” Kibbler demanded, after the brisk ceremonies were over. “You all hot and bothered again?”

“Hot but not bothered,” the detective replied.

He squinted at Kibbler’s swollen jaw that had taken on a rich purple hue, and grinned a little.

“You lads been cooped here all evening, I suppose?”

“And still,” Kibbler snapped.

“Seen Jerry around?”

“Who?”

“Jerry Sullivan,” Brower repeated.

Kibbler looked surprised. “Haven’t seen him for a week.”

“He come in tonight to eat supper, hurry away,” Nick volunteered quickly. “About eight o’clock. He got off in his car.”

The detective nodded, as if that bit of testimony was highly gratifying. “I saw him come in about that time. Thought maybe he’d stuck around.”

“Not with us,” Fulton attested.

“That’s good,” Brower said. “Just wanted to be sure. I’d hate to see him running with you lads. Been together all evening?”

“All of it,” Kibbler answered. “Why? Something happen?”

“Something happened,” Brower said. “You took a little spin over to the East Side tonight, picked up a parcel and lugged it back here. And you put two slugs into Bob Hanson.”

“You’re cuckoo!”

“And since you and Doc have been together all evening,” Brower went on, “he must have been on the party. Just the pair of you.”

“We haven’t been off the premises,” Kibbler maintained. “Ask Nick.”

“Sure; that’s right,” the Greek corroborated. “The boys they—”

“You,” Brower shot at the Ajax proprietor, “clear out!”

Nick lifted his hands, shrugged and reluctantly vanished.

“The rookie cop’s dead,” Brower stated. “ But he lived long enough to give us the license number of the car he tried to stop.”

“Yeah?” Kibbler smirked. “So what?”

“They make up a full house, Lew. Three aces and a pair of treys. Maybe it sounds familiar.”

A flicker of apprehension crossed Kibbler’s stony countenance and his eyes narrowed. “That’s my tag, all right, but—”

“I didn’t need to wait to have it checked,” Brower explained. “It’s been easy for me to remember. It’s been stamped on my mind for a long, long time. That’s why I’m on the job so quick.”

Kibbler glowered. “Rot! You’re either trying for a frame, or that cop pulled a boner. My bus has been parked out in front here since I landed before eight o’clock.”

The detective shook his head. “Wrong. It’s half a block up the street.”

“Up — the street?” Kibbler repeated blankly. “Why—”

He broke off short to flash a look at Doc Fulton, whose red face was beginning to show a gray pallor. The first prickling of an appalling truth filled him with panic.

“We’ve been inspecting the car,” Brower continued placidly. “We find blood on the running board and a rod tucked under the rear seat. A thirty-eight, with two cartridges exploded. When we get the slugs out of Hanson—”

“You... you’re crazy!” Kibbler exploded. “You’re trying to make a lousy frame. You can’t get away with it.”

“You can’t get away from it,” Brower retorted.

Kibbler dared not look again toward Fulton. He glowered at the detective and the two grim officers. Jerry Sullivan had tricked him! He remembered that his car, and Sullivan’s, were identical in make, model and color. The latter had stepped boldly into Kibbler’s parked machine and driven off. Fulton hadn’t suspected, nor had Kibbler himself when he climbed in later.

Brower went on speaking. “They were thirty-eight slugs that dropped me three months ago. I knew whose gun they came out of all right, but I couldn’t locate it. I’ve found it now. You winged me, and you rubbed out Andy Reed so he wouldn’t blab. You—”

“But I tell you — I tell you my car — I left it out front,” Kibbler choked. “If it’s moved — I didn’t know.”

Brower seemed to be considering a new angle. “You think some one might have borrowed your bus — pulled the job and hoped to slip you the blame?”

“Yes, that’s it!” Kibbler pounced upon that alluring suggestion. “That’s just what happened. The car wasn’t locked. I left the keys in the switch.”

“They’re gone now,” Brower said. “The car’s locked.”

“Locked?” Kibbler wet his lips. “Then... then the rat using my car must have taken the keys with him.”

“Somebody took ’em,” Brower agreed. “Maybe you’ve forgotten. About locking the car, I mean. We sort of do that automatically, you know,” he added, smiling. “Suppose we take a look.”

He stepped up and frisked the man, his nimble fingers dipping into Kibbler’s pockets. The latter submitted quietly.

“What’s this?” the detective queried. From an outside coat pocket he had extracted a narrow, worn leather case. Inside, on a ring, were two keys.

Kibbler fell back, goggling at the evidence that had been plucked from his pocket like a rabbit from, a magician’s hat.

“Look like ignition keys to me,” Brower observed complacently, scanning them. “They sure do. We’ll soon find out.”

Kibbler opened his mouth but no words came. Unmistakably they were his keys. And now, vividly, he recalled Jerry Sullivan walking beside him along the dark areaway, stumbling against him, pawing at his coat. Of course! A ruse to transfer the keys!

Even more vividly he recalled Sullivan’s pertinent comment: something about a cat’s paw scratching.

Hot, raging oaths tumbled from Kibbler’s lips. He shook from impotent fury. “It... it’s a frame!” he screamed, “A lousy frame, I tell you!”

“Never mind erupting,” Brower cut him short. “You’re sunk, Lew. You’ve had it coming a long, long time. Take the pair away,” he barked at the officers. “I’ll be along presently. Want to prowl Upstairs a bit first, rout out the parcel you boys cached.”