“What makes you think it wasn’t a phony ring? What do you know about diamonds?”
“I’m working for the agency with Oppenheim. They’ve lost a lot of stones lately. I don’t know, of course, that this is one of them, but I do know that some of the stones that were taken were Brazilian. They were not blue-whites. Brilliant, but off-color. I heard them talking about them. And I know that imitations are not made of off-color stones, unless on a special order. If she didn’t come straight by that stone you could get it out of her. And—”
“You’re a smart girl,” said Connelly. “We could use you on the force if the regulations stood for it. We’ll collect this Mae Morgan. I’ve a notion we’ve got something on her. We’ll bring her in, and this partner of hers, with our friend Salterno. We’ll raid the Nest. What they know we’ll find out.”
The deputy was of the old school. His methods of dealing with crooks might not be considered humanitarian, but they were efficient. He pressed a button, gave swift, concise orders.
“I’m going with the squad,” he said, opening a drawer of his desk and taking out his gun.
He examined it expertly, set it in a shoulder holster.
“I’m going with you,” said the girl.
Connelly shook his head at her.
“No place for you. We’ll bring them back here.”
“You may find something out right there,” she said. “I’m going, anyway. I’m a detective. I’ll go by myself if you won’t take me.”
Connelly put his hand under her rounded but firmly molded chin, looked into her eyes.
“You can’t ride with the squad,” he said. “But I can’t stop you following. I’ll take you in my own car. You can handle the woman. You’re right. There’s no sense in bringing them here. We’ll hold our little third degree right in the Nest.”
V
Dugan hung from a sodden beam, almost submerged. The shock of the water helped to revive him. He could swim, as soon as he was sure enough of his strength. His rapid exit had left him exhausted. He was thankful for the days when, as a youngster, he had learned to dive, to swim under water, from the wharves where he played with the boys of the neighborhood.
The hatch was above him and to the right as he held himself close to the planking that covered the piles. He heard the excited voices of Blaze and two other men. Rocco had come down the ladder, probably for a drink. The beam of a flash light played on the water, roved about the surface, along the boarded-in section of the wharf.
“He was shammin’,” said Blaze. “Got rid of the dope when he threw up. We gotta get him or Blacky’ll raise hell.”
“He’ll raise hell, too, if he makes a giter-way. Maybe he drowned. He can’t git out.”
“I’ll shoot the rat,” said Blaze. “Swing that torch, can’t you?”
The ray came toward Dugan and silently he sank under the surface, groping for a handhold, finding it in a snag of slimy iron bolt with a square nut at its end, hanging to it, holding his breath, fearful that a bubble might betray him.
Looking up he could see the ray moving away, a dim spot through the murky water. Silently he came to the surface again, took long breath, swam under water, making for the front of the wharf. He had seen that the torch ray barely carried that far. Soon the launch would be coming.
It was here already. He heard it bump lightly against the end of the wharf, close in. Treading water in a far corner he saw a gate swing open. A launch came in silently, thrust forward by boathooks, gliding through. The gate was closed. He could not get out to the river.
But he had not been seen. The launch had been darkened, but now lights showed in the cabin. There was a bustle of men. The engine was shut off. The launch moved on, came to rest by the open hatch.
Dugan could see the men handling the stolen stuff expeditiously. There were three of them at it, the fourth standing in the bows. Evidently Blaze was not eager to break the bad news and Black was busy with getting the loot ashore. Blaze had said two men usually stayed in the launch. They would probably go into the cabin. When they did—
He had got another hold. The drug seemed to have leached out of him. Energy had returned. When Blacky heard the news, they would make a thorough search of the space beneath the wharf, would find him, shoot him if they did not haul him ignominiously aboard.
Blacky had gone inside with two of the men. Dugan heard a sudden storm of words. He launched himself out beneath the water, body straight, making for the hull. He had to act at once. Black was cursing Blaze, who was excusing himself. The two men aboard went forward and Dugan dragged himself into the cockpit.
“Turn on that searchlight,” Blacky ordered, appearing in the hatchway. “Start that engine. Set her over by the gate. If he ain’t drowned we’ll git him. I’ll fill him full enough of lead to sink an’ stay down.”
He broke into curses. Beside him some one held the torch that stabbed the darkness, but failed to locate Dugan, crouching back of the hood.
The engineer was coming back along the narrow gangway beside the cabin structure. Dugan prayed that he would have a gun.
The man did not see him as he stooped to enter the cabin. Dugan was on him like a tiger. He brought down the back of his hand in a rabbit punch with desperate force and the man fell inside the cabin, Dugan on top, feeling for a weapon, finding it.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” cried Blacky. “Turn her over. Go aft and help him, Jake.”
Dugan met the second man as he stepped down into the cockpit. He clubbed him with the barrel of the gun he had found, rejoicing in the feel of it. His strength was with him again.
The man toppled backward, across the gunwale, sprawling, struggling convulsively, falling into the water with a splash.
“What’s up?”
Blacky leaped aboard and Dugan fired at him over the cabin hood. He saw Blacky reel and then straighten up, shooting back. The bullet whined close to Dugan as he sent a second slug straight to the mark. Blacky went down in a heap, but now other bullets were singing, spurts of fire coming from the hatch.
But no one dared to come aboard. He held them, and he drove them back. His hammer clicked on his last cartridge as they disappeared from his accurate marksmanship. Not for nothing had he practiced at the police gallery.
Dugan raced forward, got Blacky’s gun with shells still in it. He gained the hatch and saw the room empty, a pair of legs disappearing up the ladder. He fired at them and a body came hurtling down, a body topped by a red head. Blaze!
Blaze rolled on the floor, twisted, trying to aim his weapon, collapsing as Dugan’s lead tore through him.
He heard the scrape of opening doors, the starting of a motor. They were making their get-away. Leaving the loot. And he had got four of them.
Three. He heard a slight noise as he was about to mount the ladder. The man he had rabbit-chopped was looking through the hatch, but ducked, unarmed, as Dugan let him go. He might need all his shells for men who would fire back.
One man would have a hard job to open the gate and get the launch out. Dugan was but one himself as he sprang up the ladder.
The truck was moving out. Then it halted.
Headlights sprayed it. There were sharp commands. Officers came swarming into the warehouse, surrounding the truck. Dugan saw Connelly with unbelieving eyes. And then, back of the deputy, he saw the shining face of Mary Brady.
Manhunts of a Great Detective
by John Wilson Murray
Old “Never-Let-Go” Tells What Makes a Detective — and Relates the Strange Case of the “Weazened Wonder” of Erie