Black Mask (Vol. 29, No. 3 — January 1947)

“We’re calling on Kay. She’s going to tell us how she happened to have the phone number of that apartment.”

“Well, I can answer that,” Shelton said sheepishly. “When I took her home tonight the old boy at the desk had the number. She asked him who’d given it to him, and he said he didn’t know. Some guy had phoned it in and said to give it to her.”

I didn’t look at Shelton. I turned back into the main drag and continued on downtown. When we came to a bar that was open I parked in front of it.

“I can use a shot,” I told Shelton. “I’m getting a headache.”

He joined me. When the barman brought our drinks, I asked casually: “Brocky been in tonight?”

The barman looked me over.

“Brocky who, pal?”

“I don’t know the guy’s last name. What is it anyway?”

The barman looked me over very thoughtfully, and said: “I don’t know what the gag is, pal. I don’t know no Brocky, and I don’t know you. Shall I set up another round?”

“No, thanks.”

We left. We stopped at the next open bar, which was blocks away, for it was so late that only those with night club permits remained open. We got about the same kind of response from a barman there. After we had visited three more bars and almost reached the center of town, I knew I couldn’t keep it up without getting drunk all over again. Shelton had been pouring them down right with me and he didn’t show it a bit. Of course I had been in a hell of a shape to begin with.

“Look here,” I told him, as I drove away, “we’d better contact Keever and have him turn the entire staff loose looking for this guy Brocky instead of Sutton. My hunch is that if we find Brocky, we’ll find Sutton.”

Shelton was looking into the mirror, which he’d adjusted so that he could see through the rear glass.

“Maybe we won’t have to find Brocky. Maybe Brocky is looking for us.”

I reached up and adjusted the mirror so that I could have a look. There was a car half a block behind. I made a couple of turns, and the trailing lights stuck there. I felt relieved.

“Well, if you want to get off, it’ll be all right with me. There may be some shooting in about a minute.”

“If there is, I want to do some of it.”

I was glad he felt that way about it. He carried a .45 automatic that wasn’t noticeable because his chest was so thick that even a hand-me-down suit wouldn’t show a bulge. I carried a gun on the same kind of frame, only it was a Super .38 loaded with Super-X cartridges that push a bullet through eleven pine boards. I had an idea we could take care of whoever wanted to play rough. So I jammed on the brakes and turned the car across the center of the street.

The other car’s tires screeched, and it stopped only a few feet short of us. I was out on the pavement by that time, and Shelton made it even faster than I did. He took one side of the car, and I took the other. We reached the other car just as the driver was slamming the gears into reverse.

“Hold it!” I snapped to the driver, and he did this, for the muzzle of a Super .38 looks as big as a cannon. Shelton on his side was doing all right — the other guy in the car seemed to be trying to shrivel down into the seat. The car was stopped now, and I asked: “All right, boys, who sent you?”

The driver gave me the silent treatment. He was a smarty, I could see at a glance. His hair was rust-colored, and his face was florid. He had a quick temper, but he was holding it in because he wanted more than anything else to be smart. He was going to make an issue of not answering me.

His pal looked too small to be in such a game. He was still shriveling down, looking terrified at the gaping muzzle of Shelton’s automatic. Fortunately there was no traffic in the side street I’d turned into. So I jerked open the door, reached inside with the Super .38 and slapped the smart guy’s temple with a back-handed blow of the slide. He went out like a light, and I dragged him out from under the wheel and shoved him unconscious into the street. Then I turned to the little, shriveling guy.

“All right, jerk, do you want some of the same?”

He began to whimper.

“Don’t hit me, Mr. Corbett! Brocky only wanted us to find out why you were asking about him!”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Brocky who?”

The little man looked puzzled. I got it then. I was supposed to know Brocky. I said gently: “Just come with us and take us to Brocky. We’ll tell him what we want.”

The little fellow looked terrified at the thought of being dragged in before his boss, but when Shelton opened the door he got out after one gesture from the .45. Then I heard a scraping noise behind me and whirled.

At the same time I cocked the Super .38, for I’d carried it hammer-down. It’s a good thing for me that I did, for Smart Guy had risen on one elbow. Blood was streaming from his temple and getting into one eye. He was giving me no pleasant look as he tugged at something under his coat and in the region of his belt. It turned out that the something was a snub-nosed revolver.