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

Dick scratched his ear. “That’s what we’re up against,” he said. “All right, jail will be a nice place for you, Clarice. But you have to swear you’ll stay in the car. No following us over the wall.”

“If you don’t agree, we’ll call this whole business off,” I exclaimed. The thought of Clarice going to jail was horrible. I couldn’t stand it.

“ You bet your life you ain’t going in with us, lady,” spoke up Bill Bridgeman. “We take risk enough without watching out for a dame.”

“All right, I’ll stick with the car,” she said reluctantly.

“You promise, Clarice?” I asked eagerly.

“Yep.”

About eleven-thirty we drew near the estate in Montecito. We drove past the private road about two hundred yards, came to a turnout at the right, and Clarice drove the car off the road and turned out the lights. We got out, looked to our weapons and to Dick for orders. Clarice descended and stood quietly. Suddenly she threw her arms around her brother’s neck. He lifted her clear off the ground as he kissed her. The pair certainly liked each other.

Clarice shook hands with Jim and Bill and then came to me. I felt shaky, all of a sudden.

“Tim,” she said very softly, “please be careful — for my sake. Don’t be rash, darling.”

There were tears in her eyes. And, for the first time, I had the idea that — maybe — Clarice thought of me as more than a pal of her brother’s. I hadn’t taken the kiss she gave me when I arrived at the house seriously. She was always exuberant and of course she was delighted to see me back. But now. I pounced on her, lifted her up and kissed her.

She kissed me back fiercely and then she said sharply, “You put me down, you big lug.”

I dropped her like a hot cake and said, “Excuse me,” very humbly.

Clarice laughed loudly. “Oh, don’t mention it,” she replied, and hopped back behind the wheel of the car.

“Come on, boys,” ordered Dick.

We walked toward the estate across lots.

“We’ll go over the wall,” he said, “creep up to the lodge and nab the gate keeper and tie him up. That will fix our getaway. We’ll find out from him where Maroni’s boys hang out, surprise them, if we can, and then bust into the house. It’s as good a plan as any.”

It was better than what I could suggest, so we all agreed. We worked through thick shrubbery and a park of trees and came to the wall. We got over by the same method that had served us the first time, but instead of heading boldly for the big house, we worked along by the wall until we came to the lodge. It was a small bungalow and there was a light in one of the rooms.

Dick softly tried the door, but it was locked. He risked ringing the door bell. We heard footsteps and then the door opened. A gray-haired man peered at us and emitted a terrified squeak when he looked into the barrel of Dick’s automatic. He was not the gate keeper that Dick had held up on our first visit.

“Anybody inside?” asked Dick harshly. The man shook his head.

“ Get back.” He retreated, trembling. We pushed into the room — the door opened directly into the living room. I sized him up as a regular servant, not a henchman of Maroni’s. So, apparently, did Dick.

“Sit down,” commanded Dick. “We won’t hurt you unless you make trouble.”

“I won’t make any trouble, mister,” he promised.

“How many servants at the house?”

“Seven, sir.”

“ How many women?”

“Just the housekeeper and the cook.”

“What are the others?”

“ Mr. Steele’s valet, Mr. Farrell, the secretary — he has a valet and there is the footman, the butler and the chauffeur.”

“How many sleep in the house?”

“They all do, sir.”

“Doesn’t the chauffeur sleep over the garage?”

“No, sir, on account of the defectives. They are quartered in the rooms over the garage.”

“How many of these ‘detectives’ are there?”

“Six, sir. They are very necessary — an attempt was made to rob the house a couple of weeks ago, but they drove off the robbers.”

“How long has Mr. Steele employed these detectives?”

“Well, there were two ever since I’ve been here, but the others came about a month ago, at the time young Mr. Steele was killed in Los Angeles.”

“How long have you been with Mr. Steele?”

“About ten months, sir.”

“How many of the detective patrol the grounds — they work in shifts, don’t they?”

“Yes, sir, two at a time, four-hour watches. You see Mr. Jonathan is so rich—”

“Never mind. Now we’re going to tie you up and put a gag in your mouth, but we’re not going to hurt you. You’ll be released very shortly.”

“Look here, Mr. Barton,” the man alarmed us by exclaiming, “you can’t do this. I voted for you for district attorney a year ago in Los Angeles. You ain’t going to tie and gag me. I’m an honest man. I protest.”

“Bill, go out in the kitchen and find a rope,” said Dick. “I hate to trouble a man who voted for me, but sometimes the law officers have to do unlawful things. The end justifies the means.”

“What are you going to do?” asked the terrified servant.

Dick gave his crazy laugh. “Right a great wrong, Pop. Lay down while we do what has to be done. That your bedroom? Well, I want you to be comfortable. Lay down on your bed.”

Still protesting, the unlucky constituent of the ex-district attorney was bound and gagged.

“I don’t think this is going to be so tough,” Dick told us. “We’ll try to reach the garage without bumping into the pickets, catch these birds together, overpower them, then fire a shot which will bring the two watchmen, knock them over and go up and knock on the front door of the house.”

“Meantime, Jonathan might make a getaway,” I objected.

“He has to use a car, and we have the garage,” he countered. “Come on, boys.”

We went outside. The moon was not up yet, but there were lights in the second story of the house and lights on the second floor of the garage. We moved carefully in the latter direction.

“Some one coming,” warned Jim Bridgeman. We fell flat. A man was coming down the driveway toward the lodge.

“Can’t have that,” whispered Dick. “Get him, Tim.”

I crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the driveway. I saw him only fifty feet away. I waited. When he was almost opposite me I made a dive tackle and struck him with my shoulder at the knees. They didn’t teach football in the school he went to and he didn’t know how to relax. When I got up, he didn’t. The fellow’s head had struck the concrete and he was out cold.

I pulled a big revolver out of the side pocket of his jacket and was joined by the others.

“ Lots of time,” said Dick. “We’ll park him in the lodge, tied up with the old man.”

He came to as we were entering the lodge, but a word of warning kept him quiet. Five minutes later we set out again. “Only five,” said Dick. “It’s a cinch.”

This time we arrived at the garage without encountering anybody. There was a small door unlocked and we got inside. Dick had a flashlight and we located the stairs.

“Take off your shoes,” he whispered. We obeyed, and with Dick in the lead we started up the stairs. At the head of the stairs there was a door with a wide streak of light beneath it.

A voice said loudly, “No good, I have three aces.”

“Poker game, what a break!” muttered Dick. We threw open the door.

Four rough-looking men sat around a table.

“Royal flush,” shouted Barton. “I win!”

We had them covered. Their cue was to lift their hands. Instead, one of them fired point blank at Dick Barton. He fired too quick and missed, and I winged him. The Bridgeman brothers plunged in. There followed as hard and sharp a scrap as I ever got into. A dozen shots were fired at such close range that most of them missed. Fists and butts of guns came into play. I was rolling on the floor with a burly thug who got his gun against the pit of my stomach but whose skull cracked against the floor before he could pull the trigger.