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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Ambulance Made Two
Trips
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
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Title: The Ambulance Made Two Trips
Author: Murray Leinster
Illustrator: John Schoenherr
Release date: January 3, 2008 [eBook #24149]
Most recently updated: May 27, 2010
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24149
Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Mary Meehan and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
AMBULANCE MADE TWO TRIPS ***
Trips
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will
have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.
Title: The Ambulance Made Two Trips
Author: Murray Leinster
Illustrator: John Schoenherr
Release date: January 3, 2008 [eBook #24149]
Most recently updated: May 27, 2010
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24149
Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Mary Meehan and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
AMBULANCE MADE TWO TRIPS ***
Page 4
THE AMBULANCE MADE TWO
TRIPS
TRIPS
Page 5
By MURRAY LEINSTER
Illustrated by Scoenherr
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science
Fiction April 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Illustrated by Scoenherr
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science
Fiction April 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Page 6
If you should set a thief to catch a thief, what does it take to stop
a racketeer...?
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald found a package before his door that
morning, along with the milk. He took it inside and opened it. It was a
remarkably fine meerschaum pipe, such as the sergeant had longed
irrationally to own for many years. There was no message with it, nor any
card. He swore bitterly.
On his way to Headquarters he stopped in at the orphanage where he
usually left such gifts. On other occasions he had left Scotch, a fly-rod, sets
of very expensive dry-flies, and dozens of pairs of silk socks. The female
head of the orphanage accepted the gift with gratitude.
"I don't suppose," said Fitzgerald morbidly, "that any of your kids will
smoke this pipe, but I want to be rid of it and for somebody to know." He
paused. "Are you gettin' many other gifts on this order, from other cops?
Like you used to?"
The head of the orphanage admitted that the total had dropped off.
Fitzgerald went on his way, brooding. He'd been getting anonymous gifts
like this ever since Big Jake Connors moved into town with bright ideas.
Big Jake denied that he was the generous party. He expressed complete
ignorance. But Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald knew better. The gifts were
having their effect upon the Force. There was a police lieutenant whose
wife had received a mink stole out of thin air and didn't speak to her
husband for ten days when he gave it to the Community Drive. He wouldn't
do a thing like that again! There was another sergeant—not Fitzgerald—
who'd found a set of four new white-walls tires on his doorstep, and was
ostracized by his teen-age offspring when he turned them into the police
Lost and Found. Fitzgerald gave his gifts to an orphanage, with a fine
disregard of their inappropriateness. But he gloomily suspected that a great
many of his friends were weakening. The presents weren't bribes. Big Jake
not only didn't ask acknowledgments of them, he denied that he was the
a racketeer...?
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald found a package before his door that
morning, along with the milk. He took it inside and opened it. It was a
remarkably fine meerschaum pipe, such as the sergeant had longed
irrationally to own for many years. There was no message with it, nor any
card. He swore bitterly.
On his way to Headquarters he stopped in at the orphanage where he
usually left such gifts. On other occasions he had left Scotch, a fly-rod, sets
of very expensive dry-flies, and dozens of pairs of silk socks. The female
head of the orphanage accepted the gift with gratitude.
"I don't suppose," said Fitzgerald morbidly, "that any of your kids will
smoke this pipe, but I want to be rid of it and for somebody to know." He
paused. "Are you gettin' many other gifts on this order, from other cops?
Like you used to?"
The head of the orphanage admitted that the total had dropped off.
Fitzgerald went on his way, brooding. He'd been getting anonymous gifts
like this ever since Big Jake Connors moved into town with bright ideas.
Big Jake denied that he was the generous party. He expressed complete
ignorance. But Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald knew better. The gifts were
having their effect upon the Force. There was a police lieutenant whose
wife had received a mink stole out of thin air and didn't speak to her
husband for ten days when he gave it to the Community Drive. He wouldn't
do a thing like that again! There was another sergeant—not Fitzgerald—
who'd found a set of four new white-walls tires on his doorstep, and was
ostracized by his teen-age offspring when he turned them into the police
Lost and Found. Fitzgerald gave his gifts to an orphanage, with a fine
disregard of their inappropriateness. But he gloomily suspected that a great
many of his friends were weakening. The presents weren't bribes. Big Jake
not only didn't ask acknowledgments of them, he denied that he was the
Page 7
giver. But inevitably the recipients of bounty with the morning milk felt less
indignation about what Big Jake was doing and wasn't getting caught at.
At Headquarters, Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald found a memo. A memo
was routine, but the contents of this one were remarkable. He scowled at it.
He made phone calls, checking up on the more unlikely parts of it. Then he
went to make the regular investigation.
When he reached his destination he found it an unpretentious frame
building with a sign outside: "Elite Cleaners and Dyers." There were no
plate-glass windows. There was nothing show-off about it. It was just a
medium-sized, modestly up-to-date establishment to which lesser tailoring
shops would send work for wholesale treatment. From some place in the
back, puffs of steam shot out at irregular intervals. Somebody worked a
steampresser on garments of one sort or another. There was a rumbling
hum, as of an oversized washing-machine in operation. All seemed tranquil.
The detective went in the door. Inside there was that peculiar, professional-
cleaning-fluid smell, which is not as alarming as gasoline or carbon
tetrachloride, but nevertheless discourages the idea of striking a match. In
the outer office a man wrote placidly on one blue-paper strip after another.
He had an air of pleasant self-confidence. He glanced up briefly, nodded,
wrote on three more blue-paper strips, and then gathered them all up and
put them in a particular place. He turned to Fitzgerald.
"Well?"
Fitzgerald showed his shield. The man behind the counter nodded again.
"My name's Fitzgerald," grunted the detective. "The boss?"
"Me," said the man behind the counter. He was cordial. "My name's Brink.
You've got something to talk to me about?"
"That's the idea," said Fitzgerald. "A coupla questions."
Brink jerked a thumb toward a door.
"Come in the other office. Chairs there, and we can sit down. What's the
trouble? A complaint of some kind?"
indignation about what Big Jake was doing and wasn't getting caught at.
At Headquarters, Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald found a memo. A memo
was routine, but the contents of this one were remarkable. He scowled at it.
He made phone calls, checking up on the more unlikely parts of it. Then he
went to make the regular investigation.
When he reached his destination he found it an unpretentious frame
building with a sign outside: "Elite Cleaners and Dyers." There were no
plate-glass windows. There was nothing show-off about it. It was just a
medium-sized, modestly up-to-date establishment to which lesser tailoring
shops would send work for wholesale treatment. From some place in the
back, puffs of steam shot out at irregular intervals. Somebody worked a
steampresser on garments of one sort or another. There was a rumbling
hum, as of an oversized washing-machine in operation. All seemed tranquil.
The detective went in the door. Inside there was that peculiar, professional-
cleaning-fluid smell, which is not as alarming as gasoline or carbon
tetrachloride, but nevertheless discourages the idea of striking a match. In
the outer office a man wrote placidly on one blue-paper strip after another.
He had an air of pleasant self-confidence. He glanced up briefly, nodded,
wrote on three more blue-paper strips, and then gathered them all up and
put them in a particular place. He turned to Fitzgerald.
"Well?"
Fitzgerald showed his shield. The man behind the counter nodded again.
"My name's Fitzgerald," grunted the detective. "The boss?"
"Me," said the man behind the counter. He was cordial. "My name's Brink.
You've got something to talk to me about?"
"That's the idea," said Fitzgerald. "A coupla questions."
Brink jerked a thumb toward a door.
"Come in the other office. Chairs there, and we can sit down. What's the
trouble? A complaint of some kind?"
Page 8
He ushered Fitzgerald in before him. The detective found himself scowling.
He'd have felt better with a different kind of man to ask questions of. This
Brink looked untroubled and confident. It didn't fit the situation. The inner
office looked equally matter-of-fact. No.... There was the shelf with the
usual books of reference on textiles and such items as a cleaner-and-dyer
might need to have on hand. But there were some others: "Basic Principles
of Psi", "Modern Psychokinetic Theories." There was a small, mostly-
plastic machine on another shelf. It had no obvious function. It looked as if
it had some unguessable but rarely-used purpose. There was dust on it.
"What's the complaint?" repeated Brink. "Hm-m-m. A cigar?"
"No," said Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald. "I'll light my pipe." He did,
extracting tobacco and a pipe that was by no means a meerschaum from his
pocket. He puffed and said: "A guy who works for you caught himself on
fire this mornin'. It happened on a bus. Very peculiar. The guy's name was
Jacaro."
Brink did not look surprised.
"What happened?"
"It's kind of a strange thing," said Fitzgerald. "Accordin' to the report he's
ridin' this bus, readin' his paper, when all of a sudden he yells an' jumps up.
His pants are on fire. He gets 'em off fast and chucks them out the bus
window. He's blistered some but not serious, and he clams up—but good—
when the ambulance doc puts salve on him. He won't say a word about what
happened or how. They hadda call a ambulance because he couldn't go
huntin' a doc with no pants on."
"But he's not burned badly?" asked Brink.
"No. Blisters, yes. Scared, yes. And mad as hell. But he'll get along. It's too
bad. We've pinched him three times on suspicion of arson, but we couldn't
make it stick. Something ought to happen to make that guy stop playin' with
matches—only this wasn't matches."
He'd have felt better with a different kind of man to ask questions of. This
Brink looked untroubled and confident. It didn't fit the situation. The inner
office looked equally matter-of-fact. No.... There was the shelf with the
usual books of reference on textiles and such items as a cleaner-and-dyer
might need to have on hand. But there were some others: "Basic Principles
of Psi", "Modern Psychokinetic Theories." There was a small, mostly-
plastic machine on another shelf. It had no obvious function. It looked as if
it had some unguessable but rarely-used purpose. There was dust on it.
"What's the complaint?" repeated Brink. "Hm-m-m. A cigar?"
"No," said Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald. "I'll light my pipe." He did,
extracting tobacco and a pipe that was by no means a meerschaum from his
pocket. He puffed and said: "A guy who works for you caught himself on
fire this mornin'. It happened on a bus. Very peculiar. The guy's name was
Jacaro."
Brink did not look surprised.
"What happened?"
"It's kind of a strange thing," said Fitzgerald. "Accordin' to the report he's
ridin' this bus, readin' his paper, when all of a sudden he yells an' jumps up.
His pants are on fire. He gets 'em off fast and chucks them out the bus
window. He's blistered some but not serious, and he clams up—but good—
when the ambulance doc puts salve on him. He won't say a word about what
happened or how. They hadda call a ambulance because he couldn't go
huntin' a doc with no pants on."
"But he's not burned badly?" asked Brink.
"No. Blisters, yes. Scared, yes. And mad as hell. But he'll get along. It's too
bad. We've pinched him three times on suspicion of arson, but we couldn't
make it stick. Something ought to happen to make that guy stop playin' with
matches—only this wasn't matches."
Page 9
"I'm glad he's only a little bit scorched," said Brink. He considered. "Did he
say anything about his eyelids twitching this morning? I don't suppose he
would."
The detective stared.
"He didn't. Say aren't you curious about how he came to catch on fire? Or
what his pants smelled of that burned so urgent? Or where he expected
burnin' to start instead of his pants?"
Brink thought it over. Then he shook his head.
"No. I don't think I'm curious."
The detective looked at him long and hard.
"O.K.," he said dourly. "But there's something else. Day before yesterday
there was a car accident opposite here. Remember?"
"I wasn't here at the time," said Brink.
"There's a car rolling along the street outside," said the detective. "There's
some hoods in it—guys who do dirty work for Big Jake Connors. I can't
prove a thing, but it looks like they had ideas about this place. About thirty
yards up the street a sawed-off shotgun goes off. Very peculiar. It sends a
load of buckshot through a side window of your place."
Brink said with an air of surprise: "Oh! That must have been what broke the
window!"
"Yeah," said Fitzgerald. "But the interesting thing is that the flash of the
shotgun burned all the hair off the head of the guy that was doin' the drivin'.
It didn't scratch him, just scorched his hair off. It scared him silly."
Brink grinned faintly, but he said pleasantly: "Tsk. Tsk. Tsk."
"He jams down the accelerator and rams a telephone pole," pursued
Fitzgerald. "There's four hoods in that car, remember, and every one of
'em's got a police record you could paper a house with. And they've got four
sawed-off shotguns and a tommy-gun in the back seat. They're all laid out
cold when the cops arrive."
say anything about his eyelids twitching this morning? I don't suppose he
would."
The detective stared.
"He didn't. Say aren't you curious about how he came to catch on fire? Or
what his pants smelled of that burned so urgent? Or where he expected
burnin' to start instead of his pants?"
Brink thought it over. Then he shook his head.
"No. I don't think I'm curious."
The detective looked at him long and hard.
"O.K.," he said dourly. "But there's something else. Day before yesterday
there was a car accident opposite here. Remember?"
"I wasn't here at the time," said Brink.
"There's a car rolling along the street outside," said the detective. "There's
some hoods in it—guys who do dirty work for Big Jake Connors. I can't
prove a thing, but it looks like they had ideas about this place. About thirty
yards up the street a sawed-off shotgun goes off. Very peculiar. It sends a
load of buckshot through a side window of your place."
Brink said with an air of surprise: "Oh! That must have been what broke the
window!"
"Yeah," said Fitzgerald. "But the interesting thing is that the flash of the
shotgun burned all the hair off the head of the guy that was doin' the drivin'.
It didn't scratch him, just scorched his hair off. It scared him silly."
Brink grinned faintly, but he said pleasantly: "Tsk. Tsk. Tsk."
"He jams down the accelerator and rams a telephone pole," pursued
Fitzgerald. "There's four hoods in that car, remember, and every one of
'em's got a police record you could paper a house with. And they've got four
sawed-off shotguns and a tommy-gun in the back seat. They're all laid out
cold when the cops arrive."
Page 10
"I was wondering about the window," said Brink, pensively.
"It puzzles you, eh?" demanded the detective ironically. "Could you've
figured it out that they were goin' to shoot up your plant to scare the people
who work for you so they'll quit? Did you make a guess they intended to
drive you outta business like they did the guy that had this place before
you?"
"That's an interesting theory," said Brink encouragingly.
Detective Fitzgerald nodded.
"There's one thing more," he said formidably. "You got a delivery truck.
You keep it in a garage back yonder. Yesterday you sent it to a garage for
inspection of brakes an' lights an' such."
"Yes," said Brink. "I did. It's not back yet. They were busy. They'll call me
when it's ready."
Fitzgerald snorted.
"They'll call you when the bomb squad gets through checkin' it! When the
guys at the garage lifted the hood they started runnin'. Then they hollered
copper. There was a bomb in there!"
Brink seemed to try to look surprised. He only looked interested.
"Two sticks of dynamite," the detective told him grimly, "wired up to go off
when your driver turned on the ignition. He did but it didn't. But we got a
police force in this town! We know there's racketeerin' bein' practiced. We
know there's crooked stuff goin' on. We even got mighty good ideas who's
doin' it. But we ain't been able to get anything on anybody. Not yet.
Nobody's been willin' to talk, so far. But you—"
The telephone rang stridently. Brink looked at the instrument and shrugged.
He answered.
"Hello.... No, Mr. Jacaro isn't in today. He didn't come to work. On the way
downtown his pants caught on fire—"
"It puzzles you, eh?" demanded the detective ironically. "Could you've
figured it out that they were goin' to shoot up your plant to scare the people
who work for you so they'll quit? Did you make a guess they intended to
drive you outta business like they did the guy that had this place before
you?"
"That's an interesting theory," said Brink encouragingly.
Detective Fitzgerald nodded.
"There's one thing more," he said formidably. "You got a delivery truck.
You keep it in a garage back yonder. Yesterday you sent it to a garage for
inspection of brakes an' lights an' such."
"Yes," said Brink. "I did. It's not back yet. They were busy. They'll call me
when it's ready."
Fitzgerald snorted.
"They'll call you when the bomb squad gets through checkin' it! When the
guys at the garage lifted the hood they started runnin'. Then they hollered
copper. There was a bomb in there!"
Brink seemed to try to look surprised. He only looked interested.
"Two sticks of dynamite," the detective told him grimly, "wired up to go off
when your driver turned on the ignition. He did but it didn't. But we got a
police force in this town! We know there's racketeerin' bein' practiced. We
know there's crooked stuff goin' on. We even got mighty good ideas who's
doin' it. But we ain't been able to get anything on anybody. Not yet.
Nobody's been willin' to talk, so far. But you—"
The telephone rang stridently. Brink looked at the instrument and shrugged.
He answered.
"Hello.... No, Mr. Jacaro isn't in today. He didn't come to work. On the way
downtown his pants caught on fire—"
Page 11
Fitzgerald guessed that the voice at the other end of the line said "What?"
in, an explosive manner.
Brink said matter-of-factly: "I said his pants caught on fire. It was probably
something he was bringing here to burn the plant down with—a fire bomb.
I don't think he's to blame that it went off early. He probably started out
with the worst possible intentions, but something happened...." He listened
and said: "But he didn't chicken! He couldn't come to work and plant a fire
bomb to set fire to the place!... I know it must be upsetting to have things
like that automobile accident and my truck not blowing up and now Jacaro's
pants instead of my business going up in flames. But I told you—"
He stopped and listened. Once he grinned.
"Wait!" he said after a moment. He covered the transmitter and turned to
Fitzgerald. "What hospital is Jacaro in?"
Fitzgerald said sourly: "He wasn't burned bad. Just blistered. They lent him
some pants and he went home cussing."
"Thanks," said Brink. He uncovered the transmitter. "He went home," he
told the instrument. "You can ask him about it. In a way I'm sure it wasn't
his fault. I'm quite sure his eyelids twitched when he started out. I think the
men who drove the car the other day had twitching eyelids, too. You should
ask—"
The detective heard muted noises, as it a man shouted into a transmitter
somewhere.
Brink said briskly: "No, I don't see any reason to change my mind.... No.... I
know it was luck, if you want to put it that way, but.... No. I wouldn't advise
that! Please take my advice about when your eyelid twitches—"
Fitzgerald heard the crash of the receiver hung up at some distant place.
Brink rubbed his ear. He turned back.
"Hm-m-m," he said. "Your pipe's gone out."
It was. Sergeant Fitzgerald puffed ineffectually. Brink reached out his finger
and tapped the bowl of the detective's pipe. Instantly fragrant smoke filled
the detective's mouth. He sputtered.
in, an explosive manner.
Brink said matter-of-factly: "I said his pants caught on fire. It was probably
something he was bringing here to burn the plant down with—a fire bomb.
I don't think he's to blame that it went off early. He probably started out
with the worst possible intentions, but something happened...." He listened
and said: "But he didn't chicken! He couldn't come to work and plant a fire
bomb to set fire to the place!... I know it must be upsetting to have things
like that automobile accident and my truck not blowing up and now Jacaro's
pants instead of my business going up in flames. But I told you—"
He stopped and listened. Once he grinned.
"Wait!" he said after a moment. He covered the transmitter and turned to
Fitzgerald. "What hospital is Jacaro in?"
Fitzgerald said sourly: "He wasn't burned bad. Just blistered. They lent him
some pants and he went home cussing."
"Thanks," said Brink. He uncovered the transmitter. "He went home," he
told the instrument. "You can ask him about it. In a way I'm sure it wasn't
his fault. I'm quite sure his eyelids twitched when he started out. I think the
men who drove the car the other day had twitching eyelids, too. You should
ask—"
The detective heard muted noises, as it a man shouted into a transmitter
somewhere.
Brink said briskly: "No, I don't see any reason to change my mind.... No.... I
know it was luck, if you want to put it that way, but.... No. I wouldn't advise
that! Please take my advice about when your eyelid twitches—"
Fitzgerald heard the crash of the receiver hung up at some distant place.
Brink rubbed his ear. He turned back.
"Hm-m-m," he said. "Your pipe's gone out."
It was. Sergeant Fitzgerald puffed ineffectually. Brink reached out his finger
and tapped the bowl of the detective's pipe. Instantly fragrant smoke filled
the detective's mouth. He sputtered.
Page 12
"Now.... where were we?" asked Brink.
"Who was that?" demanded Fitzgerald ferociously. "That was Big Jake
Connors!"
"You may be right." Brink told him. "He's never exactly given me his name.
He just calls up every so often and talks nonsense."
"What sort of nonsense?"
"He wants to be a partner in this business," said Brink without emotion.
"He's been saying that things will happen to it otherwise. I don't believe it.
Anyhow nothing's happened so far."
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald tried at one and the same time to roar and to
swallow. He accomplished neither. He put his finger in the bowl of his pipe.
He jerked it out, scorched.
"Look!" he said almost hoarsely, "I was tellin' you when the phone rang!
We got a police force here in town! This's what we've been tryin' to get!
You come along with me to Headquarters an' swear to a complaint—"
Brink said interestedly: "Why?"
"That guy Big Jake Connors!" raged the detective. "That's why! Tryin' to
threaten you into givin' him a share in your business! Tryin' to burn it down
or blow it up when you won't! He was just a small-town crook, once. He
went to the big town an' came back with ideas. He's usin' 'em!"
Brink looked at him expectantly.
"He started a beer business," said the detective bitterly. "Simultaneous other
beer dealers started havin' trouble. Empty kegs smashed. Trucks broke
down. Drivers in fights. They hadda go outta business!"
"What did the cops do?" asked Brink.
"Who was that?" demanded Fitzgerald ferociously. "That was Big Jake
Connors!"
"You may be right." Brink told him. "He's never exactly given me his name.
He just calls up every so often and talks nonsense."
"What sort of nonsense?"
"He wants to be a partner in this business," said Brink without emotion.
"He's been saying that things will happen to it otherwise. I don't believe it.
Anyhow nothing's happened so far."
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald tried at one and the same time to roar and to
swallow. He accomplished neither. He put his finger in the bowl of his pipe.
He jerked it out, scorched.
"Look!" he said almost hoarsely, "I was tellin' you when the phone rang!
We got a police force here in town! This's what we've been tryin' to get!
You come along with me to Headquarters an' swear to a complaint—"
Brink said interestedly: "Why?"
"That guy Big Jake Connors!" raged the detective. "That's why! Tryin' to
threaten you into givin' him a share in your business! Tryin' to burn it down
or blow it up when you won't! He was just a small-town crook, once. He
went to the big town an' came back with ideas. He's usin' 'em!"
Brink looked at him expectantly.
"He started a beer business," said the detective bitterly. "Simultaneous other
beer dealers started havin' trouble. Empty kegs smashed. Trucks broke
down. Drivers in fights. They hadda go outta business!"
"What did the cops do?" asked Brink.
Page 13
"They listened to their wives!" snarled Fitzgerald. "They begun to find little
grabbag packages in the mail an' with the milk. Fancy perfume. Tricky
stockin's. Fancy underwear they shoulda been ashamed for anybody to
know they had it on underneath. The cops weren't bribed, but their wives
liked openin' the door of a mornin' an' findin' charmin' little surprises."
"Ah," said Brink.
"Then there were juke boxes," went on the detective. "He went in that
business—an' trouble started. People'd drive up to a beer joint, go in, get in
a scuffle an'—bingo! The juke box smashed. Always the juke box. Always a
out-of-town customer. Half the juke boxes in town weren't workin', on an
average. But the ones that were workin' were always Big Jake's. Presently
he had the juke-box business to himself."
Brink nodded, somehow appreciatively.
"Then it was cabs," said Fitzgerald. "A lot of cops felt bad about that. But
their wives wouldn't be happy if anything happened to dear Mr. Big Jake
who denied that he gave anybody anything, so it was all right to use that
lovely perfume.... Cabs got holes in their radiators. They got sand in their
oil systems. They had blowouts an' leaks in brake-fluid lines. Cops' wives
were afraid Big Jake would get caught. But he didn't. He started insurin'
cabs against that kinda accident. Now every cab-driver pays protection-
money for what they call insurance—or else. An' cops' wives get up early,
bright-eyed, to see what Santa Claus left with the milk."
"You seem," said Brink with a grin, "to hint that this Big Jake is ... well ...
dishonest."
"Dishonest!" Fitzgerald's face was purplish, from many memories of
wrongs. "There was a guy named Burdock who owned this business before
you. Y'know what happened to him?"
"Yes," said Brink. "He's my brother-in-law. Connors or somebody insisted
on having a share of the business and threatened dreadful things if he didn't.
He didn't. So acid got spilled on clothes. Machinery got smashed. Once a
whole delivery-truck load of clothes disappeared and my brother-in-law had
to pay for any number of suits and dresses. It got him down. He's
recovering from the nervous strain now, and my sister ... eh, asked me to
grabbag packages in the mail an' with the milk. Fancy perfume. Tricky
stockin's. Fancy underwear they shoulda been ashamed for anybody to
know they had it on underneath. The cops weren't bribed, but their wives
liked openin' the door of a mornin' an' findin' charmin' little surprises."
"Ah," said Brink.
"Then there were juke boxes," went on the detective. "He went in that
business—an' trouble started. People'd drive up to a beer joint, go in, get in
a scuffle an'—bingo! The juke box smashed. Always the juke box. Always a
out-of-town customer. Half the juke boxes in town weren't workin', on an
average. But the ones that were workin' were always Big Jake's. Presently
he had the juke-box business to himself."
Brink nodded, somehow appreciatively.
"Then it was cabs," said Fitzgerald. "A lot of cops felt bad about that. But
their wives wouldn't be happy if anything happened to dear Mr. Big Jake
who denied that he gave anybody anything, so it was all right to use that
lovely perfume.... Cabs got holes in their radiators. They got sand in their
oil systems. They had blowouts an' leaks in brake-fluid lines. Cops' wives
were afraid Big Jake would get caught. But he didn't. He started insurin'
cabs against that kinda accident. Now every cab-driver pays protection-
money for what they call insurance—or else. An' cops' wives get up early,
bright-eyed, to see what Santa Claus left with the milk."
"You seem," said Brink with a grin, "to hint that this Big Jake is ... well ...
dishonest."
"Dishonest!" Fitzgerald's face was purplish, from many memories of
wrongs. "There was a guy named Burdock who owned this business before
you. Y'know what happened to him?"
"Yes," said Brink. "He's my brother-in-law. Connors or somebody insisted
on having a share of the business and threatened dreadful things if he didn't.
He didn't. So acid got spilled on clothes. Machinery got smashed. Once a
whole delivery-truck load of clothes disappeared and my brother-in-law had
to pay for any number of suits and dresses. It got him down. He's
recovering from the nervous strain now, and my sister ... eh, asked me to
Page 14
help out. So I offered to take over. He warned me I'd have the same
trouble."
"And you've got it!" fumed the detective. "But anyhow you'll make a
complaint. We'll get out some warrants, and we'll have somethin' to go on
—"
"But nothing's happened to complain about," said Brink, quite reasonably.
"One broken window's not worth a fuss."
"But somethin's goin' to happen!" insisted the detective. "That guy Big Jake
is poison! He's takin' over the whole town, bit by bit! You've been lucky so
far, but your luck could run out—"
Brink shook his head.
"No-o-o," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm grateful to you, Mr. Fitzgerald, but I
have a special kind of luck. I won't tell you about it because you wouldn't
believe but—but I can give you some of it. If you don't mind, I will."
He went to the slightly dusty, partly-plastic machine. On its shelf were
some parts of metal, and some of transparent plastic, and some grayish,
granular substance it was hard to identify. There was an elaborate diagram
of something like an electronic circuit inside, but it might have been a
molecular diagram from organic chemistry. Brink made an adjustment and
pressed firmly on a special part of the machine, which did not yield at all.
Then he took a slip of plastic out of a slot in the bottom.
"You can call this a good-luck charm," he said pleasantly, "or a talisman.
Actually it's a psionic unit. One like it works very well, for me. Anyhow
there's no harm in it. Just one thing. If your eyelids start to twitch, you'll be
headed for danger or trouble or something unpleasant. So if they do twitch,
stop and be very, very careful. Please!"
He handed the bit of plastic to Fitzgerald, who took it without conscious
volition.
Then Brink said briskly: "If there isn't anything else—"
"You won't swear out a warrant against Big Jake?" demanded Fitzgerald
bitterly.
trouble."
"And you've got it!" fumed the detective. "But anyhow you'll make a
complaint. We'll get out some warrants, and we'll have somethin' to go on
—"
"But nothing's happened to complain about," said Brink, quite reasonably.
"One broken window's not worth a fuss."
"But somethin's goin' to happen!" insisted the detective. "That guy Big Jake
is poison! He's takin' over the whole town, bit by bit! You've been lucky so
far, but your luck could run out—"
Brink shook his head.
"No-o-o," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm grateful to you, Mr. Fitzgerald, but I
have a special kind of luck. I won't tell you about it because you wouldn't
believe but—but I can give you some of it. If you don't mind, I will."
He went to the slightly dusty, partly-plastic machine. On its shelf were
some parts of metal, and some of transparent plastic, and some grayish,
granular substance it was hard to identify. There was an elaborate diagram
of something like an electronic circuit inside, but it might have been a
molecular diagram from organic chemistry. Brink made an adjustment and
pressed firmly on a special part of the machine, which did not yield at all.
Then he took a slip of plastic out of a slot in the bottom.
"You can call this a good-luck charm," he said pleasantly, "or a talisman.
Actually it's a psionic unit. One like it works very well, for me. Anyhow
there's no harm in it. Just one thing. If your eyelids start to twitch, you'll be
headed for danger or trouble or something unpleasant. So if they do twitch,
stop and be very, very careful. Please!"
He handed the bit of plastic to Fitzgerald, who took it without conscious
volition.
Then Brink said briskly: "If there isn't anything else—"
"You won't swear out a warrant against Big Jake?" demanded Fitzgerald
bitterly.
Page 15
"I haven't any reason to," said Brink amiably. "I'm doing all right. He hasn't
harmed me. I don't think he will."
"O.K.!" said the detective bitterly. "Have it your way! But he's got it in for
you an' he's goin' to keep tryin' until he gets you! An' whether you like it or
not, you're goin' to have some police protection as soon as I can set it up."
He stamped out of the cleaning-and-drying plant. Automatically, he put the
bit of plastic in his pocket. He didn't know why. He got into his car and
drove downtown. As he drove, he looked suspiciously at his pipe. He
fumed. As he fumed, he swore. He did not like mysteries. But there was no
mystery about his dislike for Big Jake Connors. He turned aside from the
direct route to Headquarters to indulge it. He drove to a hospital where four
out-of-town hoods had been carried two days before. He marched inside
and up to a second-floor corridor door with a uniformed policeman seated
outside it.
"Hm-m-m. Donnelly," he growled. "How about those guys?"
"Not so good," said the patrolman. "They're gettin' better."
"They would," growled Fitzgerald.
"A lawyer's been to see 'em twice," said the patrolman. "He's comin' back
after lunch."
"He would," grunted the detective.
"They want out," said the cop.
"I'm not surprised," said Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald.
He went into the sick room. There were four patients in it, none of them
looking exactly like gentle invalids. There were two broken noses of long-
ago dates, three cauliflower ears, and one scar of a kind that is not the result
of playing lawn tennis. Two were visibly bandaged, and the others
adhesive-taped. All of them looked at Fitzgerald without cordiality.
harmed me. I don't think he will."
"O.K.!" said the detective bitterly. "Have it your way! But he's got it in for
you an' he's goin' to keep tryin' until he gets you! An' whether you like it or
not, you're goin' to have some police protection as soon as I can set it up."
He stamped out of the cleaning-and-drying plant. Automatically, he put the
bit of plastic in his pocket. He didn't know why. He got into his car and
drove downtown. As he drove, he looked suspiciously at his pipe. He
fumed. As he fumed, he swore. He did not like mysteries. But there was no
mystery about his dislike for Big Jake Connors. He turned aside from the
direct route to Headquarters to indulge it. He drove to a hospital where four
out-of-town hoods had been carried two days before. He marched inside
and up to a second-floor corridor door with a uniformed policeman seated
outside it.
"Hm-m-m. Donnelly," he growled. "How about those guys?"
"Not so good," said the patrolman. "They're gettin' better."
"They would," growled Fitzgerald.
"A lawyer's been to see 'em twice," said the patrolman. "He's comin' back
after lunch."
"He would," grunted the detective.
"They want out," said the cop.
"I'm not surprised," said Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald.
He went into the sick room. There were four patients in it, none of them
looking exactly like gentle invalids. There were two broken noses of long-
ago dates, three cauliflower ears, and one scar of a kind that is not the result
of playing lawn tennis. Two were visibly bandaged, and the others
adhesive-taped. All of them looked at Fitzgerald without cordiality.
Page 16
"Well, well, well!" he said. "You fellas still here!" There was silence. "In
union there is strength," said Fitzgerald. "As long as you stay in one room
everybody's sure the others haven't started rattin'. Right?"
One of the four snarled silently at him.
"It was just a accident," pursued the detective. "You four guys are ridin'
along peaceable, merrily takin' the air, when quite inadvertently one of you
almost blows the head off of another, and he's so astonished at there bein' a
gun in the car that he wrecks it. And when they get you guys in the hospital
there ain't one of you knows anything about four sawed-off shotguns and a
tommy gun in the car with you. Strange! Strange! Strange!"
Four faces regarded him with impassive dislike. The bandaged ones were
prettier than the ones that weren't.
"That tommy gun business," explained Fitzgerald, "is a federal affair. It's
against Fed law to carry 'em around loaded. And your friend Big Jake hasn't
been leavin' presents on the White House steps. Y'know, you guys could be
in trouble!"
Three pairs of eyes and an odd one—the other was hidden under a bandage
—stared at him stonily.
"Y'see," explained Fitzgerald again, "Big Jake's slipped up. He hasn't
realized it yet. Its my little secret. A week ago I thought he had me licked.
But somethin' happened, and today I felt like I had to come around and
congratulate you fellas. You got a break! You're gonna have free board and
lodging for years to come! I wanted to be the first to tell you!"
He beamed at them and went out. Outside, his expression changed. He said
bitterly to the cop at the door: "I bet they beat this rap!"
He went downstairs and out of the hospital. He started around the building
to his car.
union there is strength," said Fitzgerald. "As long as you stay in one room
everybody's sure the others haven't started rattin'. Right?"
One of the four snarled silently at him.
"It was just a accident," pursued the detective. "You four guys are ridin'
along peaceable, merrily takin' the air, when quite inadvertently one of you
almost blows the head off of another, and he's so astonished at there bein' a
gun in the car that he wrecks it. And when they get you guys in the hospital
there ain't one of you knows anything about four sawed-off shotguns and a
tommy gun in the car with you. Strange! Strange! Strange!"
Four faces regarded him with impassive dislike. The bandaged ones were
prettier than the ones that weren't.
"That tommy gun business," explained Fitzgerald, "is a federal affair. It's
against Fed law to carry 'em around loaded. And your friend Big Jake hasn't
been leavin' presents on the White House steps. Y'know, you guys could be
in trouble!"
Three pairs of eyes and an odd one—the other was hidden under a bandage
—stared at him stonily.
"Y'see," explained Fitzgerald again, "Big Jake's slipped up. He hasn't
realized it yet. Its my little secret. A week ago I thought he had me licked.
But somethin' happened, and today I felt like I had to come around and
congratulate you fellas. You got a break! You're gonna have free board and
lodging for years to come! I wanted to be the first to tell you!"
He beamed at them and went out. Outside, his expression changed. He said
bitterly to the cop at the door: "I bet they beat this rap!"
He went downstairs and out of the hospital. He started around the building
to his car.
Page 17
His eyelid twitched. It twitched again. It began to quiver and flutter
continuously. Fitzgerald stopped short to rub the offending eye.
continuously. Fitzgerald stopped short to rub the offending eye.
Page 18
There was a crash. A heavy glass water-pitcher hit the cement walk
immediately before him. It broke into a million pieces. He glared up. The
pitcher would have hit him if it hadn't been for a twitching eyelid that had
brought him to a stop. The window of the room he'd just left was open, but
there was no way to prove that a patient had gotten out of bed to heave the
pitcher. And it had broken into too many pieces to offer fingerprint
evidence.
"Hah!" said Fitzgerald morosely. "They're plenty confident!"
He went to Headquarters. There were more memos for his attention. One
was just in. A cab had crossed a sidewalk and crashed into a plate-glass
window. Its hydraulic brakes had failed. The trouble was a clean saw-cut in
a pressure-line. Fitzgerald went to find out about it. The cab driver bitterly
refused to answer any questions. He wouldn't even admit that he was not
insured by Big Jake against such accidents. Fitzgerald stormed. The owner-
driver firmly—and gloomily—refused to answer a question about whether
he'd been threatened if he didn't pay protection money.
Fitzgerald raged, on the sidewalk beside the cab in the act of being
extracted from the plate-glass window. An open-mouthed bystander listened
admiringly to his language. Then the detective's eyelid twitched. It twitched
again, violently. Something made him look up. An employee of the plate-
glass company—there were rumors that Big Jake was interesting himself in
plate-glass insurance besides cabs—wrenched loose a certain spot.
immediately before him. It broke into a million pieces. He glared up. The
pitcher would have hit him if it hadn't been for a twitching eyelid that had
brought him to a stop. The window of the room he'd just left was open, but
there was no way to prove that a patient had gotten out of bed to heave the
pitcher. And it had broken into too many pieces to offer fingerprint
evidence.
"Hah!" said Fitzgerald morosely. "They're plenty confident!"
He went to Headquarters. There were more memos for his attention. One
was just in. A cab had crossed a sidewalk and crashed into a plate-glass
window. Its hydraulic brakes had failed. The trouble was a clean saw-cut in
a pressure-line. Fitzgerald went to find out about it. The cab driver bitterly
refused to answer any questions. He wouldn't even admit that he was not
insured by Big Jake against such accidents. Fitzgerald stormed. The owner-
driver firmly—and gloomily—refused to answer a question about whether
he'd been threatened if he didn't pay protection money.
Fitzgerald raged, on the sidewalk beside the cab in the act of being
extracted from the plate-glass window. An open-mouthed bystander listened
admiringly to his language. Then the detective's eyelid twitched. It twitched
again, violently. Something made him look up. An employee of the plate-
glass company—there were rumors that Big Jake was interesting himself in
plate-glass insurance besides cabs—wrenched loose a certain spot.
Page 19
Fitzgerald grabbed the bystander and leaped. There was a musical crash
behind him. A tall section of the shattered glass fell exactly where he had
been standing. It could have been pure accident. On the other hand—
He couldn't prove anything, but he had a queer feeling as he left the scene
of the crash. Back in his own car he felt chilly. Driving away, presently, he
felt his eyelid tentatively. He wasn't a nervous man. Ordinarily his eyelids
didn't twitch.
He went to investigate a second memo. It was a restaurant, and he edged the
police car gingerly into a lane beside the building. In the rear, the odor of
spilled beer filled the air. It would have been attractive but for an admixture
of gasoline fumes and the fact that it was mud. Mud whose moisture-
content is spilled beer has a peculiar smell all its own.
He got out of his car and gloomily asked the questions the memo called for.
He didn't need to. He could have written down all the answers in advance.
The restaurant now reporting vandalism had found big Jake's brand of beer
unpopular. It had twenty cases of a superior brew brought in by motor-
truck. It was stacked in a small building behind the café. For one happy
evening, the customers chose their own beer.
Now, next day, there were eighteen cases of smashed beer bottles. The
crime had been committed in the small hours. There were no clues. The
restaurant proprietor unconvincingly declared that he had no idea who'd
caused it. But he'd only notified the police so he could collect insurance—
not from Big Jake.
With a sort of morbid, frustrated gloom, Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald
made the necessary notes. He put his notebook in his pocket and backed his
car out of the alley. Oddly enough, he thought of a beautifully carved
meerschaum pipe he'd found with the milk that morning. He'd presented it
to an orphanage mainly because, irrationally, he'd have liked to keep it.
There had been other expensive gifts he'd have liked to keep. Bourbon. A
set of expensive dry-flies. An eight-millimeter movie camera. Scotch.
Shiny, smooth silk socks that would have soothed his weary feet. He'd
behind him. A tall section of the shattered glass fell exactly where he had
been standing. It could have been pure accident. On the other hand—
He couldn't prove anything, but he had a queer feeling as he left the scene
of the crash. Back in his own car he felt chilly. Driving away, presently, he
felt his eyelid tentatively. He wasn't a nervous man. Ordinarily his eyelids
didn't twitch.
He went to investigate a second memo. It was a restaurant, and he edged the
police car gingerly into a lane beside the building. In the rear, the odor of
spilled beer filled the air. It would have been attractive but for an admixture
of gasoline fumes and the fact that it was mud. Mud whose moisture-
content is spilled beer has a peculiar smell all its own.
He got out of his car and gloomily asked the questions the memo called for.
He didn't need to. He could have written down all the answers in advance.
The restaurant now reporting vandalism had found big Jake's brand of beer
unpopular. It had twenty cases of a superior brew brought in by motor-
truck. It was stacked in a small building behind the café. For one happy
evening, the customers chose their own beer.
Now, next day, there were eighteen cases of smashed beer bottles. The
crime had been committed in the small hours. There were no clues. The
restaurant proprietor unconvincingly declared that he had no idea who'd
caused it. But he'd only notified the police so he could collect insurance—
not from Big Jake.
With a sort of morbid, frustrated gloom, Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald
made the necessary notes. He put his notebook in his pocket and backed his
car out of the alley. Oddly enough, he thought of a beautifully carved
meerschaum pipe he'd found with the milk that morning. He'd presented it
to an orphanage mainly because, irrationally, he'd have liked to keep it.
There had been other expensive gifts he'd have liked to keep. Bourbon. A
set of expensive dry-flies. An eight-millimeter movie camera. Scotch.
Shiny, smooth silk socks that would have soothed his weary feet. He'd
Page 20
denied himself these gifts because he believed—he knew—that they came
from Big Jake, who tactfully won friends and influenced people by making
presents and denying it. In business matters he was stern, because that was
the way to collect protection-money. But he was subtle with cops. He had
their wives on his side.
Sergeant Fitzgerald growled in his throat. He'd always wanted a really fine
meerschaum pipe. He'd had one this morning, and he'd had to get rid of it
because it came from Big Jake. He felt that Big Jake had robbed him of it.
He turned the police car and drove back toward the Elite Cleaners and
Dyers establishment. As he drove, he growled. His eyelid had twitched
twice, and each time he'd been heading into danger or trouble. The fact was
dauntingly coincidental with Brink's comment after giving him a scrap of
plastic from the bottom of that crazy machine. These things were on his
mind. He couldn't bring himself to plan to mention them, but he needed to
talk to Brink again. Brink could testify to threats. He could justify arrests.
Sergeant Fitzgerald had a fine conviction that with a chance to apply
pressure, he could make some of Big Jake's hoods and collectors talk, and
so bust things wide open. He only needed Brink's co-operation. He drove
toward the Elite Cleaners and Dyers to put pressure on Brink toward that
happy end. But he brooded over his own eyebrow-twitchings.
When the cleaning establishment came into view, there was a car parked
before it. Two men from that car were in the act of entering the Elite plant
through the same door the detective had used earlier. He parked his car
behind the other. Fuming, he crossed the sidewalk and entered the building.
As he entered, he heard a scream from the back. He heard a crashing sound
and more screams.
He bolted ahead, through the outer office and into the working area he had
not visited before. He burst through swinging doors into a two-story,
machinery-filled cleaning-and-dyeing plant. Tables and garment racks and
five separate people appeared as proper occupants of the place. But
something had happened. There was a flood of liquid—detergent solution—
flowing toward the open back doors of the big room. It obviously came
from a large carboy which had been smashed as if to draw attention to some
urgent matter.
from Big Jake, who tactfully won friends and influenced people by making
presents and denying it. In business matters he was stern, because that was
the way to collect protection-money. But he was subtle with cops. He had
their wives on his side.
Sergeant Fitzgerald growled in his throat. He'd always wanted a really fine
meerschaum pipe. He'd had one this morning, and he'd had to get rid of it
because it came from Big Jake. He felt that Big Jake had robbed him of it.
He turned the police car and drove back toward the Elite Cleaners and
Dyers establishment. As he drove, he growled. His eyelid had twitched
twice, and each time he'd been heading into danger or trouble. The fact was
dauntingly coincidental with Brink's comment after giving him a scrap of
plastic from the bottom of that crazy machine. These things were on his
mind. He couldn't bring himself to plan to mention them, but he needed to
talk to Brink again. Brink could testify to threats. He could justify arrests.
Sergeant Fitzgerald had a fine conviction that with a chance to apply
pressure, he could make some of Big Jake's hoods and collectors talk, and
so bust things wide open. He only needed Brink's co-operation. He drove
toward the Elite Cleaners and Dyers to put pressure on Brink toward that
happy end. But he brooded over his own eyebrow-twitchings.
When the cleaning establishment came into view, there was a car parked
before it. Two men from that car were in the act of entering the Elite plant
through the same door the detective had used earlier. He parked his car
behind the other. Fuming, he crossed the sidewalk and entered the building.
As he entered, he heard a scream from the back. He heard a crashing sound
and more screams.
He bolted ahead, through the outer office and into the working area he had
not visited before. He burst through swinging doors into a two-story,
machinery-filled cleaning-and-dyeing plant. Tables and garment racks and
five separate people appeared as proper occupants of the place. But
something had happened. There was a flood of liquid—detergent solution—
flowing toward the open back doors of the big room. It obviously came
from a large carboy which had been smashed as if to draw attention to some
urgent matter.
Page 21
The people in the room seemed to have frozen at their work, except that
Brink had apparently been interrupted in some supervisory task. He was not
working at any machine to clean, dye, dry, or press clothing. He looked at
the two individuals whom Fitzgerald had seen enter only fractions of a
minute earlier. His jaw clenched, and Fitzgerald was close enough behind
the bottle-breakers to see him take an angry, purposeful step toward them.
Then he checked himself very deliberately, and put his hands in his pockets,
and watched. After an instant he even grinned at the two figures who had
preceded the detective.
They were an impressive pair. They were dressed in well-pressed garments
of extravagantly fashionable cut. They wore expensive soft hats, tilted to
jaunty angles. Even from the rear, Fitzgerald knew that handkerchiefs
would show tastefully in the breast pockets of their coats. Their shoes had
been polished until they not only shone, but glittered. But by professional
instinct Fitzgerald noted one cauliflower ear, and the barest fraction of a
second later he saw a squat revolver being waved negligently at the
screaming women.
He reached for his service revolver. And things happened.
The situation was crystal-clear. Big Jake Connors was displeased with
Brink. In all the city whose rackets he was developing and consolidating,
Brink was the only man who resisted Big Jake's civic enterprise—and got
away with it! And nobody who runs rackets can permit resistance. It is
contagious. So Big Jake had ordered that Brink be brought into line or else.
The or else alternative had run into snags, before, but it was being given a
big new try.
There was the shrill high clamor of two women screaming at the tops of
their voices because revolvers were waved at them. One Elite employee, at
the pressing machine, took his foot off the treadle and steam billowed
wildly. Another man, at a giant sheet-iron box which rumbled, stared with
his mouth open and blood draining from his cheeks. Brink, alone, looked—
quite impossibly—amused and satisfied.
Brink had apparently been interrupted in some supervisory task. He was not
working at any machine to clean, dye, dry, or press clothing. He looked at
the two individuals whom Fitzgerald had seen enter only fractions of a
minute earlier. His jaw clenched, and Fitzgerald was close enough behind
the bottle-breakers to see him take an angry, purposeful step toward them.
Then he checked himself very deliberately, and put his hands in his pockets,
and watched. After an instant he even grinned at the two figures who had
preceded the detective.
They were an impressive pair. They were dressed in well-pressed garments
of extravagantly fashionable cut. They wore expensive soft hats, tilted to
jaunty angles. Even from the rear, Fitzgerald knew that handkerchiefs
would show tastefully in the breast pockets of their coats. Their shoes had
been polished until they not only shone, but glittered. But by professional
instinct Fitzgerald noted one cauliflower ear, and the barest fraction of a
second later he saw a squat revolver being waved negligently at the
screaming women.
He reached for his service revolver. And things happened.
The situation was crystal-clear. Big Jake Connors was displeased with
Brink. In all the city whose rackets he was developing and consolidating,
Brink was the only man who resisted Big Jake's civic enterprise—and got
away with it! And nobody who runs rackets can permit resistance. It is
contagious. So Big Jake had ordered that Brink be brought into line or else.
The or else alternative had run into snags, before, but it was being given a
big new try.
There was the shrill high clamor of two women screaming at the tops of
their voices because revolvers were waved at them. One Elite employee, at
the pressing machine, took his foot off the treadle and steam billowed
wildly. Another man, at a giant sheet-iron box which rumbled, stared with
his mouth open and blood draining from his cheeks. Brink, alone, looked—
quite impossibly—amused and satisfied.
Page 22
"Get outside!" snarled a voice as Fitzgerald's revolver came out ready for
action. "This joint is finished!"
The companion of the snarling man rubbed suddenly at his eye. He rubbed
again, as if it twitched violently. But it was, after all, only a twitching
eyelid. He reached negligently down and picked up a wooden box. By its
markings, it was a dozen-bottle box of spot-remover—the stuff used to get
out spots the standard cleaning fluid in the dry-cleaning machine did not
remove.
The man heaved the box, with the hand with which he had rubbed his
twitching eye. The other man raised a hand—the one not holding a revolver
—to rub at his own eye, which also seemed to twitch agitatedly.
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald had his revolver out. He drew in his breath
for a stentorian command for them to drop their weapons. But he didn't
have time to shout. The hurtling small box of spot-remover struck the large
sheet-iron case from which loud rumblings came. It was a dryer; a device
for spinning clothes which were wet with liquid from the dry-cleaning
washer. A perforated drum revolved at high speed within it. The box of
spot-remover hit the door. The door dented in, hit the high-speed drum
inside, and flew frantically out again, free from its hinges and turning end-
for-end as it flew. It slammed into the thrower's companion, spraining three
fingers as it knocked his revolver to the floor. The weapon slid merrily
away to the outer office between Detective Fitzgerald's feet.
But this was not all. The dryer-door, having disposed of one threatening
revolver, slammed violently against the wall. The wall was merely a thin
partition, neatly paneled on the office side, but with shelves containing
cleaning-and-dyeing supplies on the other. The impact shook the partition.
Dust fell from the shelves and supplies. The hood who hadn't lost his gun
sneezed so violently that his hat came off. He bent nearly double, and in the
act he jarred the partition again.
Things fell from it. Many things. A two-gallon jar of extra-special detergent,
used only for laces, conked him and smashed on the floor before him. It
added to the stream of fluid already flowing with singular directness for the
open, double, back-door of the workroom. The hood staggered, sneezed
again, and convulsively pulled the trigger of his gun. The bullet hit
action. "This joint is finished!"
The companion of the snarling man rubbed suddenly at his eye. He rubbed
again, as if it twitched violently. But it was, after all, only a twitching
eyelid. He reached negligently down and picked up a wooden box. By its
markings, it was a dozen-bottle box of spot-remover—the stuff used to get
out spots the standard cleaning fluid in the dry-cleaning machine did not
remove.
The man heaved the box, with the hand with which he had rubbed his
twitching eye. The other man raised a hand—the one not holding a revolver
—to rub at his own eye, which also seemed to twitch agitatedly.
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald had his revolver out. He drew in his breath
for a stentorian command for them to drop their weapons. But he didn't
have time to shout. The hurtling small box of spot-remover struck the large
sheet-iron case from which loud rumblings came. It was a dryer; a device
for spinning clothes which were wet with liquid from the dry-cleaning
washer. A perforated drum revolved at high speed within it. The box of
spot-remover hit the door. The door dented in, hit the high-speed drum
inside, and flew frantically out again, free from its hinges and turning end-
for-end as it flew. It slammed into the thrower's companion, spraining three
fingers as it knocked his revolver to the floor. The weapon slid merrily
away to the outer office between Detective Fitzgerald's feet.
But this was not all. The dryer-door, having disposed of one threatening
revolver, slammed violently against the wall. The wall was merely a thin
partition, neatly paneled on the office side, but with shelves containing
cleaning-and-dyeing supplies on the other. The impact shook the partition.
Dust fell from the shelves and supplies. The hood who hadn't lost his gun
sneezed so violently that his hat came off. He bent nearly double, and in the
act he jarred the partition again.
Things fell from it. Many things. A two-gallon jar of extra-special detergent,
used only for laces, conked him and smashed on the floor before him. It
added to the stream of fluid already flowing with singular directness for the
open, double, back-door of the workroom. The hood staggered, sneezed
again, and convulsively pulled the trigger of his gun. The bullet hit
Page 23
something which was solid heavy metal, ricocheted, ricocheted again and
the second hood howled and leaped wildly into the air. He came down in
the flowing flood of spilled detergent, flat on his stomach, and with marked
forward momentum. He slid. The floor of the plant had recently been oiled
to keep down dust. The coefficient of friction of a really good detergent on
top of floor-oil is remarkably low,—somewhere around point oh-oh-nine.
Hood number two slid magnificently on his belly on the superb lubrication
afforded by detergent on top of floor-oil.
The first hood staggered. Something else fell from the shelf. It was a carton
of electric-light bulbs. Despite the protecting carton, they went off with
crackings like gunfire. Technically, they did not explode but implode, but
the hood with the revolver did not notice the difference. He leaped—and
also landed in the middle of the wide streak of detergent-over-oil which
might have been arranged to receive him.
He remained erect, but he slid slowly along that shining path. His relatively
low speed was not his fault, because he went through all the motions of
frenzied flight. His legs twinkled as he ran. But his feet slid backward. He
moved with a sort of dignified celerity, running fast enough for ten times
the speed, upon a surface which had a frictional coefficient far below that of
the smoothest possible ice.
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald gaped, his mouth dropped open and his gun
held laxly in a practically nerveless hand.
The thing developed splendidly. The prone gunman slid out of the wide
double door, pushing a bow-wave of detergent before him. He slid across
the cement just outside, into the open garage whose delivery-truck was
absent, and slammed with a sort of deliberate violence into a stack of four
cardboard drums of that bone-black which is used to filter cleaning-fluid so
it can be used over again in the dry-cleaning machine. The garage was used
for storage as well as shelter for the establishment's truck.
The four drums were not accurately piled. They were three and a half feet
high and two feet in diameter. They toppled sedately, falling with a fine
precision upon the now hatless, running, sliding hood. One of them burst
upon him. A second burst upon the prone man—who had butted through the
cardboard of the bottom one on his arrival. There was a dense black cloud
the second hood howled and leaped wildly into the air. He came down in
the flowing flood of spilled detergent, flat on his stomach, and with marked
forward momentum. He slid. The floor of the plant had recently been oiled
to keep down dust. The coefficient of friction of a really good detergent on
top of floor-oil is remarkably low,—somewhere around point oh-oh-nine.
Hood number two slid magnificently on his belly on the superb lubrication
afforded by detergent on top of floor-oil.
The first hood staggered. Something else fell from the shelf. It was a carton
of electric-light bulbs. Despite the protecting carton, they went off with
crackings like gunfire. Technically, they did not explode but implode, but
the hood with the revolver did not notice the difference. He leaped—and
also landed in the middle of the wide streak of detergent-over-oil which
might have been arranged to receive him.
He remained erect, but he slid slowly along that shining path. His relatively
low speed was not his fault, because he went through all the motions of
frenzied flight. His legs twinkled as he ran. But his feet slid backward. He
moved with a sort of dignified celerity, running fast enough for ten times
the speed, upon a surface which had a frictional coefficient far below that of
the smoothest possible ice.
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald gaped, his mouth dropped open and his gun
held laxly in a practically nerveless hand.
The thing developed splendidly. The prone gunman slid out of the wide
double door, pushing a bow-wave of detergent before him. He slid across
the cement just outside, into the open garage whose delivery-truck was
absent, and slammed with a sort of deliberate violence into a stack of four
cardboard drums of that bone-black which is used to filter cleaning-fluid so
it can be used over again in the dry-cleaning machine. The garage was used
for storage as well as shelter for the establishment's truck.
The four drums were not accurately piled. They were three and a half feet
high and two feet in diameter. They toppled sedately, falling with a fine
precision upon the now hatless, running, sliding hood. One of them burst
upon him. A second burst upon the prone man—who had butted through the
cardboard of the bottom one on his arrival. There was a dense black cloud
Page 24
which filled all the interior of the garage. It was bone-black, which cannot
be told from lamp-black or soot by the uninitiated.
From the cloud came a despairing revolver shot. It was pure reflex action
by a man who had been whammed over the head by a hundred-and-fifty-
pound drum of yielding—in fact bursting—material. There was a metallic
clang. Then silence.
In a very little while the dust-cloud cleared. One figure struggled insanely.
Upon him descended—from an oil drum of cylinder-oil stored above the
rafters—a tranquil, glistening rod of opalescent cylinder-oil. His last bullet
had punctured the drum. Oil turned the bone-black upon him into a thick,
sticky goo which instantly gathered more bone-black to become thicker,
stickier, and gooier. He fought it, while his unconscious companion lay with
his head in a crumpled cardboard container of more black stuff.
The despairing, struggling hood managed to get off one more shot, as if
defying even fate and chance. This bullet likewise found a target. It burst a
container of powdered dye-stuff, also stored overhead. The container
practically exploded and its contents descended in a widespread shower
which coated all the interior of the garage with a lovely layer of bright
heliotrope.
Maybe the struggling hood saw it. If so, it broke him utterly. What had
happened was starkly impossible. The only sane explanation was that he
had died and was in hell. He accepted that explanation and broke into sobs.
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald had witnessed every instant of the happening,
but he did not believe it. Nevertheless, he said in a strange voice: "I'll phone
for the paddy-wagon. It'll do for a ambulance, in case of need."
He put away his unused service revolver. Thinking strange, dizzy thoughts
of twitching eyelids and plastic scraps and starkly incredible happenings, he
managed to call for the police patrol. When he hung up, he gazed blankly at
the wall. He gazed, in fact, at a spot where a peculiar small machine with no
visible function reposed—somewhat dusty—on a shelf.
be told from lamp-black or soot by the uninitiated.
From the cloud came a despairing revolver shot. It was pure reflex action
by a man who had been whammed over the head by a hundred-and-fifty-
pound drum of yielding—in fact bursting—material. There was a metallic
clang. Then silence.
In a very little while the dust-cloud cleared. One figure struggled insanely.
Upon him descended—from an oil drum of cylinder-oil stored above the
rafters—a tranquil, glistening rod of opalescent cylinder-oil. His last bullet
had punctured the drum. Oil turned the bone-black upon him into a thick,
sticky goo which instantly gathered more bone-black to become thicker,
stickier, and gooier. He fought it, while his unconscious companion lay with
his head in a crumpled cardboard container of more black stuff.
The despairing, struggling hood managed to get off one more shot, as if
defying even fate and chance. This bullet likewise found a target. It burst a
container of powdered dye-stuff, also stored overhead. The container
practically exploded and its contents descended in a widespread shower
which coated all the interior of the garage with a lovely layer of bright
heliotrope.
Maybe the struggling hood saw it. If so, it broke him utterly. What had
happened was starkly impossible. The only sane explanation was that he
had died and was in hell. He accepted that explanation and broke into sobs.
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald had witnessed every instant of the happening,
but he did not believe it. Nevertheless, he said in a strange voice: "I'll phone
for the paddy-wagon. It'll do for a ambulance, in case of need."
He put away his unused service revolver. Thinking strange, dizzy thoughts
of twitching eyelids and plastic scraps and starkly incredible happenings, he
managed to call for the police patrol. When he hung up, he gazed blankly at
the wall. He gazed, in fact, at a spot where a peculiar small machine with no
visible function reposed—somewhat dusty—on a shelf.
Page 25
Brink stepped over briskly and closed the door between the scene of
catastrophe and the immaculate shop. Somehow, none of the mess had
spilled back through the doorway. Then he came in, frowning a little.
"The fight's out of them," he said cheerfully. "One's got a bad cut on his
head. The other's completely unnerved. Tsk! Tsk! I hate to have such things
happen!"
Sergeant Fitzgerald shook himself, as if trying to come back to a normal
and a reasonable world.
"Look!" he said in a hoarse voice. "I saw it, an' I still don't believe it!
Things like this don't happen! I thought you might be lucky. It ain't that. I
thought I might be crazy. It ain't that! What has been goin' on?"
Brink sat down. His air was one of wry contemplation.
"I told you I had a special kind of luck you couldn't believe. Did your
eyelids twitch any time today?"
Fitzgerald swallowed.
"They did. And I stopped short an' something that should've knocked my
cranium down my windpipe missed me by inches. An' again—But no
matter. Yes."
"Maybe you can believe it, then," said Brink. "Did you ever hear of a man
named Hieronymus?"
"No," said Fitzgerald in a numbed voice. "Who's he?"
"He got a patent once," said Brink, matter-of-factly, "on a machine he
believed detected something he called eloptic radiation. He thought it was a
kind of radiation nobody had noticed before. He was wrong. It worked by
something called psi."
Sergeant Fitzgerald shook his head. It still needed clearing.
"Psi still isn't fully understood," explained Brink, "but it will do a lot of
things. For instance, it can change probability as magnetism can change
temperature. You can establish a psi field in a suitable material, just as you
catastrophe and the immaculate shop. Somehow, none of the mess had
spilled back through the doorway. Then he came in, frowning a little.
"The fight's out of them," he said cheerfully. "One's got a bad cut on his
head. The other's completely unnerved. Tsk! Tsk! I hate to have such things
happen!"
Sergeant Fitzgerald shook himself, as if trying to come back to a normal
and a reasonable world.
"Look!" he said in a hoarse voice. "I saw it, an' I still don't believe it!
Things like this don't happen! I thought you might be lucky. It ain't that. I
thought I might be crazy. It ain't that! What has been goin' on?"
Brink sat down. His air was one of wry contemplation.
"I told you I had a special kind of luck you couldn't believe. Did your
eyelids twitch any time today?"
Fitzgerald swallowed.
"They did. And I stopped short an' something that should've knocked my
cranium down my windpipe missed me by inches. An' again—But no
matter. Yes."
"Maybe you can believe it, then," said Brink. "Did you ever hear of a man
named Hieronymus?"
"No," said Fitzgerald in a numbed voice. "Who's he?"
"He got a patent once," said Brink, matter-of-factly, "on a machine he
believed detected something he called eloptic radiation. He thought it was a
kind of radiation nobody had noticed before. He was wrong. It worked by
something called psi."
Sergeant Fitzgerald shook his head. It still needed clearing.
"Psi still isn't fully understood," explained Brink, "but it will do a lot of
things. For instance, it can change probability as magnetism can change
temperature. You can establish a psi field in a suitable material, just as you
Page 26
can establish a magnetic field in steel or alnico. Now, if you spin a copper
disk in a magnetic field, you get eddy currents. Keep it up, and the disk gets
hot. If you're obstinate about it, you can melt the copper. It isn't the magnet,
as such, that does the melting. It's the energy of the spinning disk that is
changed into heat. The magnetic field simply sets up the conditions for the
change of motion into heat. In the same way ... am I boring you?"
"Confusing me," said Fitzgerald, "maybe. But keep on. Maybe I'll catch a
glimmer presently."
"In the same way," said Brink, "you can try to perform violent actions in a
strong psi field—a field made especially to act on violence. When you first
try it you get something like eddy currents. Warnings. It can be arranged
that such psi eddy currents make your eyelids twitch. Keep it up, and
probability changes to shift the most-likely consequences of the violence.
This is like a spinning copper disk getting hot. Then, if you're obstinate
about it, you get the equivalent of the copper disk melting. Probability gets
so drastically changed that the violent thing you're trying to do becomes
something that can't happen. Hm-m-m. ... You can't spin a copper disk in a
magnetic field when it melts. You can't commit a murder in a certain kind of
psi field when probability goes hog-wild. Any other thing can happen to
anybody else—to you, for example—but no violence can happen to the
thing or person you're trying to do something violent to. The psi field has
melted down ordinary probabilities. The violence you intend has become
the most improbable of all conceivable things. You see?"
"I'm beginnin'," said Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald dizzily, "I'm beginnin' to
get a toehold on what you mean. I'd hate to have to testify about it in court,
but I'm receptive."
"So my special kind of luck," said Brink, "comes from antiviolence psi
fields, set up in psi units of suitable material. They don't use up energy any
more than a magnet does. But they transfer it, like a magnet does. My
brother-in-law thought he had to lose his business because Big Jake
threatened violent things. I offered to take it over and protect it—with psi
units. So far, I have. When four hoods intended to shoot up the place and
moved to do it, they were warned. Psi 'eddy currents' made their eyelids
twitch. They went ahead. Probability changed. Quite unlikely things
disk in a magnetic field, you get eddy currents. Keep it up, and the disk gets
hot. If you're obstinate about it, you can melt the copper. It isn't the magnet,
as such, that does the melting. It's the energy of the spinning disk that is
changed into heat. The magnetic field simply sets up the conditions for the
change of motion into heat. In the same way ... am I boring you?"
"Confusing me," said Fitzgerald, "maybe. But keep on. Maybe I'll catch a
glimmer presently."
"In the same way," said Brink, "you can try to perform violent actions in a
strong psi field—a field made especially to act on violence. When you first
try it you get something like eddy currents. Warnings. It can be arranged
that such psi eddy currents make your eyelids twitch. Keep it up, and
probability changes to shift the most-likely consequences of the violence.
This is like a spinning copper disk getting hot. Then, if you're obstinate
about it, you get the equivalent of the copper disk melting. Probability gets
so drastically changed that the violent thing you're trying to do becomes
something that can't happen. Hm-m-m. ... You can't spin a copper disk in a
magnetic field when it melts. You can't commit a murder in a certain kind of
psi field when probability goes hog-wild. Any other thing can happen to
anybody else—to you, for example—but no violence can happen to the
thing or person you're trying to do something violent to. The psi field has
melted down ordinary probabilities. The violence you intend has become
the most improbable of all conceivable things. You see?"
"I'm beginnin'," said Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald dizzily, "I'm beginnin' to
get a toehold on what you mean. I'd hate to have to testify about it in court,
but I'm receptive."
"So my special kind of luck," said Brink, "comes from antiviolence psi
fields, set up in psi units of suitable material. They don't use up energy any
more than a magnet does. But they transfer it, like a magnet does. My
brother-in-law thought he had to lose his business because Big Jake
threatened violent things. I offered to take it over and protect it—with psi
units. So far, I have. When four hoods intended to shoot up the place and
moved to do it, they were warned. Psi 'eddy currents' made their eyelids
twitch. They went ahead. Probability changed. Quite unlikely things
Page 27
became more likely than not. They were obstinate about it, and what they
intended became perhaps the only thing in the world that simply couldn't
happen. So they crashed into a telephone pole. That wasn't violence. That
was accident."
The detective blinked, and then nodded, somehow painfully.
"I see," he said uncertainly.
"Somebody set a bomb in my delivery truck," added Brink. "I'm sure his
eyelids twitched, but he didn't stop. So probability changed. The explosion
of that bomb in my truck became the most unlikely of all possible things. In
fact, it became impossible. So some electric connection went bad, and it
didn't go off. Again, when Jacaro intended to plant a time fire-bomb to set
the plant on fire—why—his eyelids must have twitched but he didn't give
up the intention. So the psi unit naturally made the burning of the plant
impossible. For it to be impossible, the fire-bomb had to go off where it
would do next to no harm. Jacaro lost his pants."
He stopped. Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald swallowed carefully.
"I don't question it," he said dizzily, "even if I don't believe it. Will you now
tell me that what just happened was a psi something keepin' violent things
from happening?"
"That's it," agreed Brink. "The psi unit made the dryer-door fly off and
knock a pistol out of a man's hand. If they'd dropped the idea of violence,
that would have ended the matter. They didn't."
"I accept it," said Fitzgerald. He gulped. "Because I saw it. A court wouldn't
believe it, though, Mr. Brink!"
"Well?"
"I've been tryin' for months," said Fitzgerald in sudden desperation, "to find
a way to stop what Big Jake's doin'. But he's tricky. He's organized. He's got
smart lawyers. Mr. Brink, if the cops could use what you've got—" Then he
intended became perhaps the only thing in the world that simply couldn't
happen. So they crashed into a telephone pole. That wasn't violence. That
was accident."
The detective blinked, and then nodded, somehow painfully.
"I see," he said uncertainly.
"Somebody set a bomb in my delivery truck," added Brink. "I'm sure his
eyelids twitched, but he didn't stop. So probability changed. The explosion
of that bomb in my truck became the most unlikely of all possible things. In
fact, it became impossible. So some electric connection went bad, and it
didn't go off. Again, when Jacaro intended to plant a time fire-bomb to set
the plant on fire—why—his eyelids must have twitched but he didn't give
up the intention. So the psi unit naturally made the burning of the plant
impossible. For it to be impossible, the fire-bomb had to go off where it
would do next to no harm. Jacaro lost his pants."
He stopped. Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald swallowed carefully.
"I don't question it," he said dizzily, "even if I don't believe it. Will you now
tell me that what just happened was a psi something keepin' violent things
from happening?"
"That's it," agreed Brink. "The psi unit made the dryer-door fly off and
knock a pistol out of a man's hand. If they'd dropped the idea of violence,
that would have ended the matter. They didn't."
"I accept it," said Fitzgerald. He gulped. "Because I saw it. A court wouldn't
believe it, though, Mr. Brink!"
"Well?"
"I've been tryin' for months," said Fitzgerald in sudden desperation, "to find
a way to stop what Big Jake's doin'. But he's tricky. He's organized. He's got
smart lawyers. Mr. Brink, if the cops could use what you've got—" Then he
Page 28
stopped. "It'd never be authorized," he said bitterly. "They'd never let a cop
try it."
"No," agreed Brink. "Until it's believed in it can only be used privately, for
private purposes. Like I've used it. Or Hm-m-m. Do you fish, or bowl, or
play golf, sergeant? I could give you a psi unit that'd help you quite a bit in
such a private purpose."
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald shook his head.
"Dry-fly fishin's my specialty," he said bitterly, "but no thank you! When
I'm pittin' myself against a trout, it's my private purpose to be a better
fisherman than he's a fish. Usin' what you've got would be like dynamitin' a
stream. No sport in that! No! But this Big Jake, he doesn't act sporting with
the public. I'd give a lot to stop him."
"You'd get no credit for it," said Brink. "No credit at all."
"I'd get the job done!" said Fitzgerald indignantly. "A man likes credit, but
he likes a lot better to get a good job done!"
Brink grinned suddenly.
"Good man!" he said approvingly. "I'll buy your idea, sergeant. If you'll
play fair with a trout, you'll play fair with a crook, and an Irishman,
anyhow, has a sort of inheritance—I'll give you what help I can, and you'll
do things your grandfather would swear was the work of the Little People.
And for a first lesson—"
"What?"
"Big Jake discourages me," said Brink. "So I'll call him up and say I'm
coming to see him. I'll say if he wants this business I'll sell it to him at a fair
price. But I'll say otherwise I'll tell the newspapers about his threats and the
four of his hoods in the hospital and the two others on the way there. Want
to come along?"
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald reached his hand to where his service
revolver reposed in its holster. Then he drew it away.
try it."
"No," agreed Brink. "Until it's believed in it can only be used privately, for
private purposes. Like I've used it. Or Hm-m-m. Do you fish, or bowl, or
play golf, sergeant? I could give you a psi unit that'd help you quite a bit in
such a private purpose."
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald shook his head.
"Dry-fly fishin's my specialty," he said bitterly, "but no thank you! When
I'm pittin' myself against a trout, it's my private purpose to be a better
fisherman than he's a fish. Usin' what you've got would be like dynamitin' a
stream. No sport in that! No! But this Big Jake, he doesn't act sporting with
the public. I'd give a lot to stop him."
"You'd get no credit for it," said Brink. "No credit at all."
"I'd get the job done!" said Fitzgerald indignantly. "A man likes credit, but
he likes a lot better to get a good job done!"
Brink grinned suddenly.
"Good man!" he said approvingly. "I'll buy your idea, sergeant. If you'll
play fair with a trout, you'll play fair with a crook, and an Irishman,
anyhow, has a sort of inheritance—I'll give you what help I can, and you'll
do things your grandfather would swear was the work of the Little People.
And for a first lesson—"
"What?"
"Big Jake discourages me," said Brink. "So I'll call him up and say I'm
coming to see him. I'll say if he wants this business I'll sell it to him at a fair
price. But I'll say otherwise I'll tell the newspapers about his threats and the
four of his hoods in the hospital and the two others on the way there. Want
to come along?"
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald reached his hand to where his service
revolver reposed in its holster. Then he drew it away.
Page 29
"He's a very violent man," he said hopefully. "I wouldn't wonder he tried to
get pretty rough—him and the characters he has on his payroll. If they have
to be stopped from bein' violent by—what is it? Psi units? Sure I'll come
along! It'd ought to be most edifyin' to watch!"
There was a clanging outside. Brink and Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald
delayed while the two unnerved, helpless, and formerly immaculate
gunmen were loaded into the paddy-wagon and carried away—to the
hospital that already held four of their ilk. Then Brink called Big Jake on
the telephone.
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald listened with increasing appreciation as Brink
made his proposition and explained matter-of-factly what had happened to
Big Jake's minions who should have wrecked the Elite Cleaners and Dyers.
When Brink hung up, Fitzgerald had a look of zestful anticipation on his
face.
"He said to come right over," said Brink. "But he was grinding his teeth."
"Ah-h-h!" said Fitzgerald pleasurably. "I'm thinkin' of the cab-drivers an'
truck drivers that've been beat up. I'm thinkin' of property smashed and
honest people scared.... Do you know, I'm terrible afraid Big Jake's too
much in the habit of violence to stop, even if his eyelids twitch? It's
deplorable! But on a strictly personal basis I think I'll enjoy seein' Big Jake
an' his hoods discouraged by ... what is it Psi units? Yes!"
And he did. Big Jake's eyelids undoubtedly did twitch while he was
preparing a reception for Brink and Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald. But he
did not heed the warning. He did not even think of the legal aspect of
violent things attempted against his visitors. So he tried violence—he and
his associates. They started out with fists and clubs, regardless of discretion.
They tried to beat up Brink and Fitzgerald. From that they went on to
sawed-off shotguns. Their efforts were still unsuccessful. Then they went to
extremes.
get pretty rough—him and the characters he has on his payroll. If they have
to be stopped from bein' violent by—what is it? Psi units? Sure I'll come
along! It'd ought to be most edifyin' to watch!"
There was a clanging outside. Brink and Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald
delayed while the two unnerved, helpless, and formerly immaculate
gunmen were loaded into the paddy-wagon and carried away—to the
hospital that already held four of their ilk. Then Brink called Big Jake on
the telephone.
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald listened with increasing appreciation as Brink
made his proposition and explained matter-of-factly what had happened to
Big Jake's minions who should have wrecked the Elite Cleaners and Dyers.
When Brink hung up, Fitzgerald had a look of zestful anticipation on his
face.
"He said to come right over," said Brink. "But he was grinding his teeth."
"Ah-h-h!" said Fitzgerald pleasurably. "I'm thinkin' of the cab-drivers an'
truck drivers that've been beat up. I'm thinkin' of property smashed and
honest people scared.... Do you know, I'm terrible afraid Big Jake's too
much in the habit of violence to stop, even if his eyelids twitch? It's
deplorable! But on a strictly personal basis I think I'll enjoy seein' Big Jake
an' his hoods discouraged by ... what is it Psi units? Yes!"
And he did. Big Jake's eyelids undoubtedly did twitch while he was
preparing a reception for Brink and Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald. But he
did not heed the warning. He did not even think of the legal aspect of
violent things attempted against his visitors. So he tried violence—he and
his associates. They started out with fists and clubs, regardless of discretion.
They tried to beat up Brink and Fitzgerald. From that they went on to
sawed-off shotguns. Their efforts were still unsuccessful. Then they went to
extremes.
Page 30
Fitzgerald wore an expression of pious joy as Big Jake Connors and his
aides, obstinately attempting violent actions, were prevented by psi units.
When it was all over, the ambulance had to make two trips.
THE END
aides, obstinately attempting violent actions, were prevented by psi units.
When it was all over, the ambulance had to make two trips.
THE END
Page 31
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