SIRENS blasted a path down the avenue for the squad cars to worm their way through. They came from all directions, converging in a roped-off area, and drew up to an armored car that lay on its side like a huge beetle. The back was blown completely off, while the hood pointed upward like the toe of an old boot. Smoke was still oozing lazily from the gaping hole in the motor.
Johnny Blaine stepped out of the police car and took in the scene with a single glance. He was new on the Detective Squad and the case excited him. A few patrolmen stood about and he walked over to them.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Someone managed to get a bomb under the hood and another inside the back door.” The cop nodded towards the wreck. “They were timed to go off together and did. Pretty neat job. eh? They grabbed about a hundred thousand, besides killing the three guards in the car, and no one saw them!”
“It’s a wonder the money didn’t get blown to bits when the blast let go.”
“Naw.” the cop said, “it was in a separate metal case inside. Probably didn’t even get dented.”
The hood fell off at Johnnie’s touch, and he looked around inside. There, fastened to the motor block, was the remains of the bomb. He poked further into the wreckage and came up with a watch face. This must have been the clock that set off the explosion! The stub of the hands were set at 12:17. He checked with his watch. It was now 12:25. and it had only taken him a few minutes to get here, so the blow-up had occurred on schedule.
Nevertheless, he felt sure that something was wrong. This street was a busy one, with traffic running in both directions. Bystanders that witnessed the robbery told vague stories of a black sedan that stopped for a moment, then sped on. As far as Blaine could see, there must be some truth in their accounts.
He hopped in the car and rode back to the office from which the wrecked car had operated. A worried-looking manager took him into the office. “Terrible, wasn’t it?” he said. “Luckily, we were insured.”
Johnny leaned across the desk.
“Tell me — these cars operate on a definite schedule, don’t they?”
“Thar’s right.” The company manager handed Johnny a sheet that resembled a railroad timetable. “Here’s a list of our runs. Every minute is accounted for, so that we know exactly where they are at any time of day.”
Johnny looked it over. At 12:17 the car was supposed to be on Kent Street somewhere between Ninth and Twelfth Avenues, yet the explosion took place a mile away. He handed the sheet back.
“Thanks. You’ll hear from me later.” The pieces of the puzzle were getting a little clearer now.
The bank was the next stop. According to the schedule the guards were allowed fourteen minutes to make the pick-up and get on to their next. Evidently something had delayed them.
Johnny Blaine went directly to the teller’s window and flashed his badge at the man. “I’d like to know if the guards on that truck got stuck here for some reason or another.”
The teller thought a moment.
“Yes, come to think of it. They were having trouble with the money box, and it took them about ten minutes to get it closed.”
Ten minutes. That was why the truck blew up where it did. The crooks must have followed the steel car in case something like that happened, and did the job right after the blast. The detective rode down to Kent Street at the prescribed speed the truck would have used. It brought him to a spot just past Tenth Avenue when the ten minutes were up. This then was the place the blast was supposed to have taken place! Even at this time of day the street was practically empty. It was a warehouse district, bordered by high wooden buildings well covered with the city’s grime.
A few blocks further down was a candy store, and Johnny called headquarters. The desk sergeant answered and Johnny shot a question at him. “What mob used to hang out on Kent Street, Sarge?”
“Tony Bertillo’s bunch. Somewhere around Twelfth, I think. But Tony is in the pen right now. A couple of weeks ago a stoolie let loose that the mob was together again under Tony’s brother, Mike.”
“Thanks, Sarge.” He hung up the receiver and walked to the counter. The owner sat behind it reading a newspaper with a radio blaring m his ear, so it was unlikely that he had overheard the conversation. Johnny took a chance anyway.
“See Mike around, chum?”
“Who wants him?”
“I got a message from his brother in the big house — for him. personally.” Without a word the man got up and went to the phone booth and dialed a number. Johnny whipped out a pencil. The men had forgotten to turn off the radio and every click of the dial phone came in on the speaker. He wrote them down. 2-3-1-6-3. A moment later the man was back.
“Mike says nerts. Now beat it!”
Johnny shrugged his shoulders and walked to his car. He drove a few blocks and entered another store. Identifying himself to the operator, he asked her to trace the numbers 2-3-1-6-3.
“That is a warehouse, sir. Number 742 Kent Street”
This was it! Night was falling, and the dusk covered him well. He went to the number and tried the door. Locked. Two doors down Johnny found an open window, and he slid inside. The place had a musty smell and was thick with cobwebs. The floor creaked under his feet.
A staircase leading to the upper floors was on the right, and he took the steps two at a time. Four flights up he came to a bolted door leading to the roof and he stepped out. Now was the time for caution! Swiftly, the cop went across the roof to the other building. The door was open. Good! Holding his breath, Johnny slipped down. Voices were coming from a lower floor, and it was toward them that he went. The voices were louder now.
He pulled his gun out of the holster and held it ready. If his hunch wasn’t right he’d be in for it! A pencil of light came from under the sill of a double door. Slowly he reached for the knob. WHAM! Something heavy crashed through the semi-gloom, and the lights went out.
Johnny came to in the room. Four men sat around a table piled high with bank notes. He’d been right, but too late, for his hands were securely bound and his gun gone.
A heavy-browed fellow looked at him. “Awake, eh copper? Too bad. You’ll be out for good in a little while!” This, then, must be Mike Bertillo. The crooks were splitting the stolen dough, and when they got through, they’d take care of him in a permanent way!
Trying not to move too much, the detective’s hands felt around the baseboard of the wall. His fingers curled around the top part and pulled, gently. To him the groaning of the plank was terrible, but no one seemed to hear it. It came out further, and a sudden wrench pulled it all the way out.
Sliding his bound wrists up to the rusted nails, he worked desperately on the ropes. One by one the strands parted, and his hands were free! He bent his knees up and began untying the ropes on his legs. So engrossed were those at the table that they never noticed him.
For a moment he let the blood run back into his cramped limbs, then took a deep breath and launched himself at the leader! They crashed together on the floor. Johnny reached for the gun and triggered it. A shot blasted out and Mike went limp. One of the gang had tried to shoot him right through the body of the chief!
The place was a bedlam. A wild shot knocked out the light. Johnny aimed at the gun flash and fired. THUD! A body hit the floor. That left two more. He could hear their breathing as they crept around trying to locate him. A chair moved and a gun roared. Johnny almost fired, but if he hit one it would reveal him to the other, and that would be the end.
Blaine eased off a shoe and skidded it across the floor. Almost immediately a shot rang out — then another! Across the floor someone groaned before he died. One of the crooks, thinking he was shooting at the cop hit his companion!
“I got him Joe. Let’s grab the dough and scram!”
He struck a match, his eyes widened as he saw what had happened. He saw the detective on his stomach in a corner and raised his gun, but he was too late. One shot rang out; the gunman crumpled to the floor.
The second time that day squad cars screamed through the city streets. Uniformed men dashed upstairs, only to find Johnny Blaine sitting quietly with four dead men. Captain Davis looked around, amazement written on his face. He looked at Johnny in mock severity.
“A fine thing — no prisoners! Just when I thought we’d have some fun knocking them around for disturbing the peace!”
***