Hooded Detective, Volume III No. 2, January, 1942Various
General
Hooded Detective, Volume III No. 2, January, 1942
Various
Detective and mystery stories -- Periodicals; Pulp literature
I had forgotten for the moment that the cop was a coward; but Burke
didn't waste a bit of time in bringing back my memory.
"Maybe we'd better call headquarters?" he said slowly.
* * * * *
I caught at Burke's arm with a grip so tight it hurt my fingers.
"Let me tell you something, Burke," I said, "Lefty is too ratty to
trust. Before a squad could get here, he'll tip Tony Flasco off about
cops coming. That's his way; he collects both ways." I let go his arm.
"We'll call headquarters, sure, but meanwhile we'll see what we can do
to stop those punks from leaving."
Burke's face was whiter than any man's I've ever seen. A muscle twitched
in his cheek, and his hands lifted a bit.
"Look, Southern," he said, "you don't understand."
"Don't understand!" I was so filled with rage I could barely talk. "I
understand only too well. You dirty yellow rat, you're a disgrace to the
uniform you wear. You're afraid, afraid to meet another man on equal
footing. You were afraid of me in the gym; you were afraid of the drunk
in the beer joint; you were afraid of Tony's guns--and now you're afraid
to try to mop up a mob that's murdered two men in cold blood." I went
toward the street. "Well, by the Gods, I'm afraid too. I'm just as
scared as you of getting my belly full of hot lead. But this is my job,
and I intend to do it."
"Look, Southern--" He caught at my sleeve.
I shook myself free. "Look, hell! You've got a gun; why don't you use it
now the way you'd have used it on a defenseless drunk!"
"That's what I'm trying--"
I swung, lifted an uppercut from my knees. Johnny Burke went down,
crumpling slackly to the cement.
"That's just in case I don't come back," I snarled, "I owe you that."
And then I was running down the street.
I ducked around the first corner, ran half a block, then slipped down
the alley. I was over my rage almost as soon as I was out of sight of
the cruiser, and suddenly sorry for what I had done.
I knew that he would be coming to in a minute or so, and would call
headquarters and report. Meanwhile, it was my job to try and hold Flasco
and his mob until help arrived. I laughed suddenly without mirth; I knew
that one man didn't have a Chinaman's chance of holding four men in that
warehouse.
I slowed down in the fourth block, realizing how weak my trip to the
hospital had made me. My head was swimming a bit, and there was a throb
of pain from my side where a slug had gouged a path.
I darted down the alley, keeping under cover, watching other shadows to
see if there was a lookout posted. Finally, I came to the rear of the
vacant warehouse, satisfied that I had arrived unseen.
I took a look around, trying to find a sliver of light that would reveal
the part of the building in which the men were hiding. Empty windows
leered back at me, scabby paint seemed to rustle in the light breeze,
but I couldn't find the slightest signs of life.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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