Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

Clint Kale regarded him with casual indifference. He remained seated in one of the hotel’s uncomfortable chairs, his slippered feet resting on the bed.

“Who the hell wants to know?” he asked, his voice the patronizing drawl with which one addresses a child.

“I do!” shouted the man, and barged across the threshold.

“You would,” agreed Clint Kale, still keeping his posture of relaxed inattention. “And who, may I ask, are you?”

It was Boston Blackie who blurted an answer.

“For God’s sake, boss,” he warned, “can’t you spot ’em?”

The heavy set man turned a glowering glance in the direction of Boston Blackie, then swept his glittering eyes back to Clint Kale.

“I’m Ellery Hatcher, the chief of police in this here town.”

Clint Kale reached for a cigarette.

“Ah, yes, you would be. Pardon me, Mr. Hatcher. But I never work with the local police. I am only called into a community to solve that which has hitherto been unsolved. That means that I am seeking to cover the inefficiency of the local authorities.

“Under the circumstances, I prefer to have no business dealings with them whatever.”

The chief of police took a threatening step forward. Boston Blackie’s hand strayed toward the handle of a hammer which had been used in uncrating the machinery.

“Well, by heck, I got something to say about that!” bellowed the officer. “You can’t come bustin’ into my territory with all these fool contraptions and then try to ignore me. I won’t stand for it.”

Clint Kale slowly removed his slippered feet from the bed, dropped the four legs of the chair to the floor with a thump, and regarded his visitor quizzically.

“Chief,” he said, “are there any speakeasies in town, any places where illegal beverages are dispensed?”

The officer snorted.

“So, you’re a revenue agent, eh?”

“Not at all. I had a purpose in asking the question.”

“The answer is no!” growled Hatcher.

“Ah, yes,” said Kale. “Not being any speakeasies, of course, it follows as a necessary corollary, that you are not receiving any hush money, graft, percentage, rake-off or knock down from such nefarious enterprises.”

The chief sneered.

“So that’s it?”

“Not at all, chief. Not at all. I merely asked the question, because I am now about to demonstrate to you the facility with which my lie detector operates.”

And Clint Kale pressed a button.

The electric lights dimmed. There was a whir of a motor, the sputter of an arc. The ancient X-ray machine sent out a flickering light from the old bulb which had long since ceased to function properly. The radio took up the song and thundered the static from its loud speaker.

Clint Kale took a seat before the dictating machine, worked the treads with his feet, and spoke loudly into the mouthpiece.

“Operator, this is a test of the veracity of Ellery Hatcher, the chief of police of Middlevale. He has just testified that there are no speakeasies in town and that he collects no graft from them.”

Kale gestured with his hand.

“If you’ll just sit in that chair, facing the radio machine, and with your profile to the camera, chief, I shall demonstrate the unfailing accuracy of my equipment.”

But Chief Hatcher refused the proffered chair.

“What the hell’s the idea? I ain’t on no witness stand. I came up here to see what your doin’, an’ I want a report. You an’ me ain’t goin’ to have no fight unless you want to start one. But you gotta cut me in on this, particularly on the publicity.”

“Oh, yes,” observed Clint Kale, “the publicity. I’d forgotten that. Boston Blackie, please see if you can get that reporter chap on the telephone. Young Rosamond, Carl Rosamond. Call the Courier, and if you can’t get him there...”

Chief Hatcher interrupted.

“Don’t call that number. It’s six fifteen. He gets off work about five thirty and eats at the Green Star lunch counter. After that he drops in at the drug store. He’s a little sweet on Betty Gilvray. Tell you what, call Gilvray’s drug store. You don’t need the number, just tell central you want Gilvray’s drug store.”

Boston Blackie put through the call, asked for Carl Rosamond.

“Here he is.”

“Ah, yes, exactly,” remarked Clint Kale as he sauntered to the telephone, took the receiver and drawled a lazy “hello.”

“Good evening, Mr. Rosamond. That was a very nice write-up, ably handled. I have some more publicity for you. Yes, this is Mr. Kale, the detective. Yes. Got your pencil? Good. Get this.

“Chief Hatcher — er, what were the initials again, Mr. Hatcher? — Oh, yes, Chief Ellery Hatcher, of the local police force, denied emphatically that there were any speakeasies in the city, or that he received any graft from the operators of the same. When asked to take the chair in front of the lie detector and repeat that statement he refused...”

There was the sound of swift motion, the pad of heavy feet behind Kale, and that individual hastily slipped the receiver back on the hook, turned to face the irate, rage-distorted features of the chief of police.