“You need lessons in shooting,” Sullivan gibed. “You didn’t get Brower three months ago and you didn’t shut Hanson’s mouth soon enough tonight.”
“And I didn’t use my own bus either time,” Kibbler retorted. “I usually look far enough ahead.”
Sullivan’s voice remained steady. “One of these days somebody’s going to look just a little further ahead, Lew. And put this in your book. Sometimes a cat’s paw can scratch.”
“Aw, stop preaching!” Kibbler grimaced. “Start traveling. And don’t get any funny ideas in your head.” He got to his feet. “Understand? If you’re bagged, you’ll burn. Squealing won’t save your face or blast me. It’ll be your word against mine — and I’ll have a flock of witnesses. Put that in your book, sap!”
Sullivan rose slowly, from his chair, his fists knotted, undismayed by Kibbler’s threat.
“Got any more advice to offer?”
“What you stalling about?” Kibbler snarled. “I’m trying to help you and you stand there gabbing. Shake a leg out of here. You give me a pain in the neck!”
“Maybe this’ll cure it,” Sullivan responded.
III
His fist shot out, landed on Kibbler’s jaw. It was a solid blow, backed by a husky arm and toughened knuckles. The surprised victim grunted, thudded against the wall and slid to the floor. Fulton bounded halfway out of his chair, but prudently sank back again.
For a moment Sullivan contemplated the sprawled form, then strode across the room, opened the door and banged it behind him.
It was raining a little now, and the pavements glistened under the myriad street lights. Clem Brower would not be outside in this weather, Sullivan reflected, and promptly set a course for the detective’s nearby apartment.
In the back room of the Ajax Café, Kibbler slowly picked himself off the floor, spluttering oaths, a hand clapped to his bruised and swollen jaw.
Nick appeared. “W-what’s happened?” he stammered, alarmed by the picture that greeted him.
Between outbursts of profanity, Kibbler told him.
“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.”