As they reached the top, lighted murkily by the dirty skylight, Sergeant Tish crouched low so that his head and shoulders would be shielded by the bulking form of Eighth Avenue Annie and her packages. The woman's shoes clattered noisily, and Haskins came to the door with the broken, patched panel, his unshaven face peering out. "You got the stuff, huh?" he grunted. "I'll bet it's a tin suit." Eighth Avenue Annie made no effort to warn him; that might mean shooting, and she wanted no shooting in her house. "It's a good suit," she muttered in a hoarse guttural. "It cost----" "Stick 'em up," roared Sergeant Tish, flipping out his gun, and rising to his full height, leveling the weapon at the now wide-open door. "Get 'em up, or I'll drill you." Don Haskins' hands went up; he would have been a fool otherwise. His lips twisted, as they emitted a vicious snarl. "Double crossed me," he said. "Took my good jack an' called in the cops. Curse you, I'll----" "Shut your mouth!" Annie whispered hoarsely, her own face livid. Sergeant Tish grinned delightedly; he was beginning to realize that it had been a fortunate circumstance looking so casually into the doorway of Abramson's secondhand clothing store. He had felt all along, of course, that the woman was lying, that she was keeping a man in hiding. And men do not hide unless they are wanted. It might be a big haul. He took another step forward and peered closely into the face of his quarry. "I can't name him offhand, but I guess the Bertillon boys'll rap to 'im fast enough." He backed Haskins into the stuffy, dirty little room at the point of the gun and reached into the pocket of his coat for an ever-ready pair of nippers. "Stick out them fins," he ordered. "I'll get these darbies on you, an' then we'll talk things over." Knowing that the gun was beaded for his vitals, and that any fool can shoot straight with an automatic, Don Haskins stuck out his hands; the handcuffs snapped about his wrists. "What's the pinch for?" he demanded with an effort at bluster. "You ain't got nothin' on me; I ain't done nothin'." "Well, anyhow, I guess you've done time," Sergeant Tish said shrewdly. "What's your name down at central office?" Don Haskins remained sullenly silent, his eyes glowing hotly, as they stared at Eighth Avenue Annie. The hag had let the bundle from Abramson's slide to the floor, and with both hands she pushed back the dirty gray hair that straggled down across her soiled face. "Want to hold out on me, eh?" grunted Sergeant Tish, with a shrug of his flesh-padded shoulders, as he thrust the gun back into its holster. His chubby face wore a smile, for he was well pleased with himself; a single-handed capture is a thing that a cop delights in. And, if it turned out to be an important arrest--well, Tish had a hunch that it was just that, an important arrest. "Suit yourself, John Doe; you'll get the rap fast enough when I get you downtown."