Noggins Gets His Man

NIMAL cleverness was one thing “Slimy'” Mead possessed, not the cleverness of intellect but that of instinct, which had been sharpened by a life of continual danger. It was the native cleverness of an animal of the wilds; a sort of subconscious wisdom created and developed by a lifelong fight for survival against the bitterest of foes.

In maintaining this fight for survival, Mead had demonstrated certain qualities which caused him to be nicknamed “Slimy” by those of the underworld, which goes to show that he was a man to be avoided by those who trusted members of the human race.

Since that memorable evening when he had become convinced beyond a doubt that Drakker had so far forgotten the rules of the game as to double cross him, Slimy Mead had exerted his animal cleverness to its utmost.

Drakker was a sort of secondary power in the local underworld, a henchman of an unknown and mysterious man higher up whose word was law. Mead had transgressed none of the unwritten regulations, yet Drakker had taken a dislike to him instantly. It was merely the case of two men hating each other at first sight. Love at first sight may be strong, but hate at first sight is stronger, and usually endures far longer

Drakker had been thrown near Mead through force of circumstance, and though Slimy Mead was a nobody compared to Drakker, yet the latter paid him the compliment of being annoyed in his presence. It was with pure maliciousness, and for no other reason, that he had Mead “framed” and sent up for a term of six months on a charge of vagrancy.

In the workhouse Slimy Mead, after a night of deep thought, had proved to be a model prisoner, much to the surprise of the guards. He did the work assigned him, observed all the rules and regulations, turned his back and deaf ears on the talk of his fellow prisoners when they criticized the authorities, and in every way showed himself to be a man who wanted to reform and make something of himself after his release.

Mead ate what food they gave him worked hard, and so kept in excellent physical condition. He was looking far ahead—he had planned certain things. On the day of his release he went back to the city and obtained a job on the docks. There was more hard work, the hardest kind of labor, but Slimy Mead seemed to be satisfied and did not look for anything else. His old companions scoffed at him, but he did not even resent it. Word was flashed through the underworld that Slimy Mead had turned white, and was a thing to be avoided with scorn thereafter.

Now and then, Slimy Mead went to some of his old haunts to wander around seemingly without any particular object. He played a game of pool once in a while, for he had a few old friends remaining. These were men who had an opinion that Slimy Mead was behaving himself for a short time to fool the police and make them believe that he clung to a life of vagrancy no longer. Some of them knew, too, that Mead had been “framed.”

Once, in a pool hall of the cheaper sort, a man made a remark concerning Mead's loss of nerve, and suggested that Mead would be preaching at the mission next. Mead merely smiled until the man's taunts increased to such an extent that he passed the deadly phrase which no man forgives. Slimy Mead grasped the other man by the shoulders, hurled him to the rear of the room, opened a door and hauled him out into the alley, and beat him until he was almost unconscious, giving excellent advice as he administered what he justly deserved.

A patrolman, attracted by the tumult, dashed to the scene, made an investigation, arrested both men, and took them into court. There Slimy Mead got a surprise; he realized that his plans were commencing to work.

“Your honor,” the patrolman told the judge, “I know this man Mead and have been watching him. He used to be no good, and recently served half a year for vagrancy. When he came out he got a job, hard work at the docks, and he's kept it since. He works hard, your honor, and his old friends have turned against him because he is trying to be decent and straight.

“About this trouble—Mead went into pool hall to play a game or two. I suppose the man gets lonesome at times. He works mighty hard, you see. This other fellow began to taunt him about trying to be a decent man. I understand that Mead stood it for a long time, and then this fellow called him a name. Mead took him out into the alley and beat him up.”

Things are allowed in most police courts that would be ruled out of any other tribunal. The judge gave some attention to the patrolman's testimony, despite the fact that a great deal of it was hearsay evidence. He refused to fine Mead, but warned him to remain away from such places and such persons in the future. He complimented Slimy Mead upon trying to do right, and he sent the other man to the workhouse for thirty days.

After that, of course, Slimy Mead found the entire district against him. But he did not seem to care for that. His plan was working. Already, he had the police thinking that he intended to do right. He had registered the fact that he had turned against the underworld—and if anything happened later the authorities would be of the opinion, he hoped, that the underworld was trying to “frame” him again, by way of revenge.

Then he continued with his plans, which revolved around Drakker. He worked steadily at his job on the docks, bought some decent clothes, lived in a respectable boarding house near the water front, and gave every indication of trying to be a good citizen.

He cultivated the patrolmen on the beat and became friendly with them. He spoke to them of his ambitions—he was going to be a dock foreman some day, and marry, and have a family, and live in a little flat. There was nothing in being a bum, he told them.

But now and then, late at night, Mead went back to his old haunts, to slip like a shadow through the dark alleys and foul streets. He seldom entered any of the resorts, but he studied the district well, though he had known it for years—and especially did he study the movements of Drakker.

Slimy Mead was the sort of man who never forgets. In the workhouse he had determined to kill Drakker, and he still clung to that idea. But he wanted to make sure that he would not be detected and forced to pay the penalty in the electric chair. He wanted to kill Drakker, and fasten the crime on “Bull” Harlon, Drakker's right-hand man, and whose testimony had done much to send Slimy Mead to the workhouse for half a year.

Mead found that it was somewhat difficult to hear all the rumors of the underworld when he was considered outside it. Men who used to speak to him freely before, refused to talk at all when he was near. They had noticed his friendship with the police, and some even went so far as to accuse him of being a stool pigeon. But Slimy Mead kept at his work, listening to what was being said and, judging, with his native cleverness, the inner meanings of remarks that he heard now and then.

Then Slimy Mead started a rumor of his own, did it insidiously and cleverly. It spread through the underworld like a fire before a raging wind. It questioned Bull Harlon's loyalty to his chief—and then came the news that Drakker and Harlon had staged a bitter quarrel.

Slimy Mead smiled when he heard that. It was what he had hoped and expected. His plan was working.

Two days after the quarrel, Drakker was in a certain pool hall gathering information from the proprietor when Bull Harlon entered. Slimy Mead had been watching Harlon carefully, shadowing him like a detective, and he was close enough to see the scene and overhear some of the words.

“Drakker,” Harlon said, “I've been thinking over our little spat. I want to convince you, Drakker, that you've got me wrong. I've got a notion that somebody has been framing this stuff up. I think that I can prove”

“You can't prove anything to me, Harlon!” Drakker cried, turning upon him with a snarl. “I wouldn't trust you as far as from here to the back door. I'm done with you, Harlon—done! You might as well realize that now and keep away from me. Understand?”

Bull Harlon's face went livid with rage, and he stepped forward quickly.

“Who are you to talk to me like that?” he cried. “I'm not a dog! You think that you're the boss of the town, don't you? Well, you're not my boss! You ain't so much!”

“That'll be all from you!” Drakker said in an ugly tone. “If you're looking for trouble”

“If I was, I wouldn't come around you. You couldn't trouble anybody!” Harlon said meaningly.

“I'll trouble you, if you don't get out of here and stay out!” Drakker declared. “I don't want you around me—understand? You—stool pigeon!”

It was the supreme insult as far as Bull Harlon was concerned. His face distorted with rage, he hurled himself toward Drakker. Half a dozen men sprang between them and prevented the clash—Drakker's men, all of them. They managed to force Bull Harlon out into the street and make him go away.

“I'll get you for that!” Harlon cried, shaking his fist at Drakker. “I'll get you for that—and get you good!”

Slimy Mead heard the threat, as did half a score other men, and he smiled and hurried away through the darkness. From a convenient doorway he watched Harlon, still muttering threats, stagger along the street. Mead followed him at a distance. He knew where Bull Harlon had access to a store of cheap liquor, and he watched him enter the place, watched for more than two hours until Harlon staggered forth again and started through another dark alley.

Then Slimy Mead crept closer to his man. He took a blackjack from one of his pockets. Closer and closer to the staggering, brain-befuddled man he went. They came into a dark patch, and Slimy Mead darted forward suddenly and struck. Harlon went down, unconscious, with scarcely a groan.

Slimy Mead worked swiftly. He did not rob the unconscious man to any great extent, He did not turn his pockets out, for he did not want Bull Harlon or anybody else to think that he had been assaulted for the purpose of robbery.

Harlon wore a pair of large cuff buttons that he had had made for him in a day of prosperity, and Mead took one of those. Harlon had an old knife with his name carved into the handle, and Slimy Mead took that. And then he hurried on through the dark alley. He had been tempted for a moment to slay Harlon then and there, but had held his hand. He had not forgotten Drakker. And he wanted Bull Harlon to go to the electric chair.

Hiding in a pile of empty packing cases, Mead watched and waited until he saw Harlon return to consciousness and stagger toward him down the alley. He felt certain that nobody had come across Harlon while he had been unconscious, and he guessed that Harlon would think that some henchman of Drakker's had struck him down at the orders of the boss. As he passed Mead he was still muttering threats.

Slimy Mead followed him again. Harlon had a room on the second floor of a tumble-down building that faced the alley, and Mead saw that he went at once to his room. Nobody saw him go up the rickety stairs. In that section of the city people did not watch others. Every person had his or her own secrets, and so the comings and goings of others were unobserved and silence respected,

Mead watched until the lamp in Harlon's room was lighted. Fifteen minutes later, he slipped up the rickety stairs himself and peered through a crack in the door. Harlon was sprawled across the bed in drunken stupor. Mead knew that he would remain that way for several hours. He hesitated a moment, and then opened the door and slipped inside the room. He blew out the light and retreated, making sure that he was not observed, for he did not want anybody to be able to testify later that the light had been burning, and hence Harlon must have been in his room,

Back in the alley again, Slimy Mead hurried through it to the first street, traveled block after block until he was safely away from the district, and then boarded a surface car. About ten o'clock he reached the boarding house on the water front where he had his room and took his meals.

Mead approached the house slowly, like a man finishing an evening stroll before retiring. Two men were sitting on the steps when he came up, and Mead stood there and talked with them for a few minutes. They were dock workers like himself, one of them belonging to his own gang.

“Guess I'll turn in,” Mead said finally. “I'm tired to-night, and it certainly was a hard day. It'll be hot to-morrow, too, I think. Good night!”

He entered the house and went up the stairs toward his room. On the second floor in the hall he met Mamie Riley, his landlady's daughter, who had been showing a certain amount of interest in Slimy Mead for some time. Mead talked and laughed and joked with her for a time, acting like a man well pleased with life as he found it; a man with no dark thoughts or plans. Presently, her mother came through the hall and joined in the conversation. A few minutes later Mead went on to his room.

He walked about it for a time, like a man undressing leisurely, and finally he snapped out the light. Still fully dressed, Mead stretched himself on the bed to rest and think. His breathing and pulse seemed normal despite his grim intentions. He had waited so long for the culmination of his plans, that now it seemed to him to be no more than an ordinary piece of work.

He heard the clock in the hall downstairs strike the hour of twelve. Mead rose from the bed slowly and carefully, so that the springs would not creak. He crept across the room to the nearest window and looked out.

It was a dark night, and rain was threatening. Mead hoped that it would not rain, for he did not want wet clothes and muddy shoes. The alley below was in pitch darkness. There did not seem to be anybody in the street beyond.

Slimy Mead had made all his arrangements. Near the window was a telephone pole, and no light from the distant street struck upon it. He intended going down this pole to the floor of the alley. He had ascertained long before that he would have to pass no window on the floor below while going down. Mead flattered himself that he had considered everything.

He raised the window carefully. Two nights before he had greased the weight ropes, so that now the window made not the slightest noise. He reached out and grasped the pole, drew himself carefully through the window, and soon had his feet securely on the climbing irons.

Then he reached back and lowered the window to within six inches of the bottom, so that, if a storm came up, the wind would not get into the room and possibly rattle the door. Mead did not want the landlady coming to his room and trying to waken him to tell him to close the window.

Down the pole he went, stopping now and then to listen, and make certain that no light struck against him. When he reached the bottom he crouched against the rear wall of the building for some time, listening. Then he moved like a shadow toward the distant street.

He took from his pocket a pair of fine kid gloves, and drew them on. He had salvaged them from a trash can far uptown a couple of weeks before, knowing that they would be just what he wanted. Halfway to the street, he stopped at the rear of an old shed, and began scratching at the dirt there. He uncovered a stone, removed it, and from a tiny hole beneath it took a revolver, loaded, oiled, and ready for use.

Mead had put the weapon there a week before. He had stolen it from a pawnshop while the proprietor was behind the partition inspecting a watch Mead had offered as security for a loan he did not need. The police would not be able to trace the revolver to him.

He put the weapon under his left arm, poking the muzzle through a tear in his vest. Mead had made sure that there were no finger prints on the revolver, for he always handled it with gloves after giving it a high polish. And he intended to throw away the gloves before returning home.

Now he was at the end of the alley. There was nobody on the street, and Mead crossed it and slipped into the alley beyond. In this manner he traveled a distance of several blocks. Then he went down a street boldly, but made sure that he was far enough away so that any passer-by could not recognize him.

He had some distance to go, and he did not care to take a car. Moreover, he did not want to reach his destination too early. Two o'clock would be time enough, he had decided. He had studied Drakker's habits well.

Finally, he came to the district in which formerly he had lived and mingled with those of the underworld. Slimy Mead was doubly cautious now, for he certainly did not want to be seen, and here a nocturnal pedestrian was subjected to the special attention of all others, since the majority were always alert to dodge the police. He made his way slowly through the dark alleys, went into hiding now and then for a few minutes, and gradually worked toward Drakker's abiding place.

Mead knew the place well. Drakker had a three-room flat on the second floor of a building, over a fruit store run by a Greek. He lived alone there, and had an old woman come in twice a week to clean the apartment. There was a narrow stairway in front, which Mead did not consider for a minute. There also was another manner of entrance, which Mead did consider.

slimy Mead glanced at the cheap watch he wore and ascertained that it was fifteen minutes of two o'clock. Standing in the darkness close to the hall of a building, he glanced up at the windows of Drakker's flat. There was no light showing.

Mead made sure that nobody was in his immediate vicinity. Then he slipped along the wall and came to a door that opened upon a rickety back stairs in the building adjoining that in which Drakker lived. Mead slipped up the narrow stairs noiselessly until he came to the second floor. There he went through the hall to the alley again, and came to a window. He opened it quickly, glad that he made no sound.

From the window, Mead crawled out upon a ledge, and made his way along it in the darkness to another window, which was in the living room of Drakker's suite. The window was locked, but Mead had expected that.

He took a glass cutter from his pocket, cut a small circle, put a rubber cap against the circle, and pulled it out with a sudden snap. Now he could reach his hand through and unlock the catch. It took him some time to raise the window, though, for he did not want it to creak and possibly awaken Drakker, and he was forced to reach in and pull down the shade inside to check a sudden draft.

With the window open wide and the shade drawn down to the bottom of the casement, Mead crouched for some time on the ledge in the darkness to watch and listen. There was not the slightest sound from the alley nor from inside the apartment. Mead hoped that Drakker would be there, asleep in his bed, for his plans might be ruined if Drakker was not. This was the night to do the deed, when Harlon's threats were fresh n the minds of men.

Mead slipped the glass cutter into his pocket again, determined to throw it away on his road home. He crept through the window, and adjusted the shade anew after getting inside. Again he stopped to listen, but could hear nothing. He took an electric torch from his pocket and flashed it to observe the furniture in the room. He would throw the torch and glass cutter away later, after making sure they were free from finger marks.

Stepping swiftly across the room, Mead came to another door and stopped there to listen again. Drakker's heavy breathing reached his ears, and he grinned grimly in the darkness. His plans were working out well.

Mead turned the knob of the door carefully, opened it a crack and listened, and then continued opening it, an inch at a time. Presently he stepped inside Drakker's bedroom and closed the door behind him as carefully as he had opened it. He reached beneath his arm and took out the revolver, and held it in the ring of light, a gloved hand hold- tric [sic] torch to his left.

For a moment he stood silent within six feet of the sleeping man. Then he took another step forward, and the electric torch was flashed. A single glance showed Mead that the shades were drawn at all the windows.

Drakker stirred in his sleep and presently opened his eyes to face a blinding glare. In alarm, he sat up quickly on the edge of the bed, scarcely realizing what was happening. A voice came to him out of the dark.

“Steady, Drakker! Sit still!”

Drakker's brain cleared, and he saw in the ring of light, a gloved hand holding a glittering revolver. Drakker's eyes bulged.

“Wh-what” he gasped.

“Silence, Drakker!”

“But”

“Whisper when you talk.”

“Who is it?” Drakker whispered. “What do you want?”

He strained his eyes, but could make out nothing outside that bright circle of light. The revolver was menacing. Drakker began to feel a certain amount of fear.

“What do you want? And who are you?” Drakker asked again

“Lower your voice! I'm Slimy Mead!”

“Well—what do you want here, Mead?” There was genuine fear in Drakker's voice now.

“I've come to take payment for the time you lied and had me sent up for six months, Drakker!” Mead replied

“But I didn't”

“Don't try to lie to me!” Mead interrupted. “You did, and Bull Harlon did! And I'm going to fix the both of you.”

“I didn't!” Drakker gasped. “Maybe Harlon did—he's been doing funny things recently”

“Stow that, Drakker! I started those rumors about Harlon just so you'd stage a scrap with him. Harlon will be blamed for what I'm going to do to-night.”

“And what—what will you do?”

“Kill you—what else?”

The small amount of courage that Drakker had, collapsed. He began to beg as he saw the menacing revolver come closer.

“I always knew you were yellow,” Mead said cruelly. “I haven't much time to waste with you, Drakker You've done a lot of things in the past that call for sudden death.”

Drakker began to beg again and Slimy Mead felt his courage going. He thrust the revolver forward again—and fired. The bullet struck Drakker between the eyes, and he fell back upon the bed.

Mead dropped the revolver on the floor and bent forward. He made certain that death had been instantaneous. From a pocket he took the knife and cuff button he had taken from Bull Harlon, and dropped them on the floor beside the bed.

He shivered once at what he had done. But he had thought of it for so long that he did not seem to realize the enormity of his offense. He extinguished the torch and reached the other room quickly, and got out upon the ledge. He left the window open, went along the ledge entered the other building, and reached the alley without having been seen. He hoped that nobody had heard the shot.

Mead was very cautious, for to be seen by anybody who knew him meant disaster. As he made his way through the alley he stripped off the gloves and threw them on a trash pile. He felt sure that he had made no mistake, that he had followed his plans exactly, and that they had been perfect.

He was glad when he got out of the district. it was almost dawn when he approached the lodging house. He went silently up the pole in the darkness, crept into his room, and lowered the window noiselessly. He stripped off his clothes and got into bed.

But he did not sleep. He thought over it all again, and once more told himself that he had made no mistake. Harlon would be arrested almost immediately, and the evidence against him would be overwhelming. Day came, and Mead got up and dressed as usual, looking over his clothes carefully to make sure that there was no evidence on them. He glanced around the room, too. Before the window was a trace of mud from the alley, and Mead removed it.

Then he bathed his head well in cold water, especially his eyes, finished dressing, and went below for breakfast. During the meal, he chatted and joked with Mamie Riley as usual. He took his lunch bucket and started toward the dock, walking with half a dozen other workers he met. Mead flattered himself that his appearance and poise were as usual, that there was nothing unnatural in his manner. Who could connect him with the death of Drakker?

Detective Peter Noggins sat in the room at headquarters that morning with his feet upon a desk, his coat hanging on the back of the chair. He held a piece of wood and a sharp knife in his hands, and he was busily engaged in making a small wood doll for the tiny daughter of the desk sergeant.

“That's Noggins,” the sergeant was telling a new newspaper reporter, pointing through the doorway. “Doesn't look much like a detective, does he? Just you wait, son. You're probably telling yourself what some men have before—that Pete Noggins is no detective, that he has been lucky, that he is an ordinary copper.”

“Well” the reporter began.

“He shocked the chief when he first reported for duty, almost made him have a fit,” the desk sergeant continued. “And in less than two months Noggins was on the homicide squad. There he sits, making a doll for my baby. Small, stoop-shouldered, thin—looks like an overworked bookkeeper, doesn't he? He's got brains, son—and some muscle. And used both recently. That's the famous Noggins—you keep your a eyes on him and you'll get good story, sooner or later.”

“How does he work?”

“Don't ask me. Merriwale, his partner, can't tell you that. After everybody else has finished Noggins just takes a look around, uses his common sense, and brings in the right man.”

Noggins, having shaped the wood doll to his own satisfaction, began painting the face with red and blue ink from the wells on the desk before him. He was interrupted by the sounding of a buzzer and the entrance of Detective Merriwale simultaneously.

Noggins got up and slipped into his coat, and with Merriwale went to the chief's room.

“Homicide—I guess,” the chief said. “Drakker.”

“Drakker?” Merriwale gasped.

“Yes, One of the leaders of the underworld. The old woman who cleans his rooms went there half an hour ago and found Drakker stretched across his bed, shot. That's all I know.”

Merriwale and Noggins hurried to the street and engaged the nearest taxicab. As they drove toward the scene of the crime, Merriwale leaned back against the cushions and puffed at a fat cigar.

“I knew somebody would get that bird some day,” Merriwale said. “Crooks' scrap, I suppose. What do you think of it, Noggins?”

“I don't know anything about it,” Noggins said, as if making an apology.

“Well, can't you speculate, man?”

“Waste of time,” said Noggins.

“Not for me, it isn't,” Merriwale declared. “This will startle the underworld some. Drakker was the lieutenant of an unknown man higher up. Some sore crook may have done for him—or it may have been ordered by the big unknown boss. When a thing like this happens, Noggins, it scares the underworld to death. Not a man of them will rest easy until the thing is settled. Here we are, Noggins.”

They got out of the taxicab, and Merriwale paid the chauffeur and took his voucher. Then they plowed their way through a crowd that a couple of patrolmen were trying in vain to scatter, and went up the narrow stairs. Another patrolman was on guard at the door there, and the frightened and weeping charwoman was sitting on the top step. Noggins regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, and Merriwale waited. He had learned to respect Noggins' methods.

“You found him?” Noggins asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“How long you been working for him?”

“I've been cleaning his rooms for a couple of years, sir. He was a kind and generous gentleman.”

“Um!” Noggins grunted. “I never heard Drakker described that way before. You wait until we come out. I may to talk to you again. Understand?”

“I—I'll wait, sir.”

“You didn't kill him, did you?”

The old woman cried out in alarm and began weeping violently.

“No, she didn't kill him,” Noggins grunted to the smiling Merriwale, and they entered the apartment.

A physician who had been called in was waiting in the bedroom.

“I have touched nothing, gentlemen,” he said. “I merely made sure that the man was dead.”

“How long dead?” Noggins snapped.

“Several hours, I should say.”

“Very good—thanks. Just give me your card, in case you are needed later.”

The physician did so, and departed. Noggins asked the patrolman to see that the coroner's office was notified, and then he closed the door. Detective Peter Noggins and Detective Merriwale were now alone in the room.

Following his usual method, Noggins merely grunted and began surveying the apartment. He found where the pane of glass had been cut, examined the ledge and the casement, and looked down at the alley below.

Merriwale was more active. He inspected the dead man and noted that the shot had been fired at close range and that the bullet had pierced the forehead. He picked up the revolver from the floor, handling it carefully to avoid destroying any finger prints that might be on it. He found the knife, and the cuff button.

“Well, there's nothing to it, Noggins,” Merriwale reported. “This is Bull Harlon's knife. His name is on the handle. This cuff button may be a clew, too. I happen to know that Harlon was Drakker's right-hand man until recently. A few days ago they had a quarrel about something. And last night, so I heard, they almost came to blows, and Harlon went away swearing that he'd make Drakker pay for it. Well—the poor devil paid.”

“You think, then, that Harlon did it?” Peter Noggins asked, as a student might ask a master.

“Don't you?”

“I'll admit that it looks like it,” said Detective Noggins. “I suppose you might as well report back to headquarters and have Harlon picked up. I'll wait here for the coroner.”

Merriwale hurried away gladly, and Peter Noggins sat down in one corner of the room and glanced around again. Merriwale had left the revolver, knife, and cuff button with him. The coroner's assistant arrived, and Noggins told him what he knew, and then hurried down the stairs and out upon the street again. The crowd had been scattered, yet the walks on both sides of the block were thronged. It was quite a collection of criminals, but Noggins gave them scant attention.

He returned to headquarters on a trolley car: Noggins did not run to taxicabs like Merriwale. When he got there, he found that Bull Harlon already had been arrested, and was being interrogated. Noggins sat down.

“I'm tellin' you the truth!” Harlon was persisting, in a voice that told plainly that told he was badly frightened. “I drank a lot of stuff after leavin' Drakker, and then started to go home and sleep it off. Somebody smashed me on the head as I was goin' through the alley. I suppose Drakker had somebody do that. When I came back to earth, I went on home. I stretched out on my bed and went to sleep. And that's all I know, gents. I had just woke up and was gettin' off the bed when the cops came in and got me.”

“Is this your knife?” Merriwale demanded, taking it from Noggins and showing it to the nervous prisoner.

“Yes, that's mine.”

“And this is your cuff button, too, isn't it? You've got the mate to it in one of your cuffs right now.”

“It's mine,” Harlon admitted.

“And these things were found within six feet of Drakker's body, on the floor of the room where the murder was done,” Merriwale said. “You must have been mighty careless, Harlon. A little too much liquor in you to be cautious, eh?”

“I didn't do it!” Harlon replied sullenly.

“We'll send you to a cell and let you think it over,” Merriwale said, at a nod from the chief.

They took Harlon away, and Peter Noggins got the revolver, knife and cuff button and left the office without a word to anybody. He went in search of the finger-print expert. Merriwale grinned at the chief as he disappeared.

“This is a sad blow for Noggins, chief,” he said. “Pete likes a case where there's some sort of puzzle. This thing is so evident that he is pained.”

“Looks simple to me,” the chief admitted, lighting a cigar and leaning back in his chair. “Hate to see a man murdered, but with Drakker gone things will be quieter in that district. Drakker was too clever for the good health of the police.”

Merriwale went into the detectives' room to wait for the appearance of Noggins. The latter had gone to the laboratory, and was standing by a window looking down at the street while the expert did his work. Presently, he reported.

“No prints on that revolver, Noggins,” he said.

“What's that? No prints at all?”

“Only at the end of the muzzle and the bottom of the butt, where Merriwale and you handled it. That barrel would take prints easily, too. That gun has been handled carefully.”

“Um!” Noggins grunted. “How about the knife?”

“Harlon's prints on it, Noggins. Here's his card. We mugged him a couple of years ago when he got six months for burglary. And there are other prints, too.”

“How about that cuff button?” Noggins asked.

“Why, yes, there is a finger print on the surface of it, too. From what I've heard, Harlon must have been full of bad liquor when he did it. Dropped the knife and cuff button, I suppose, in his hurry to get away. When crooks get to murderin' each other, it's a lot easier for the police.”

“Um!” Noggins grunted as though his mind was upon something else. “Professor,” he added, with some sarcasm, “step closer and lend me your ears. I would a few words with thee.”

“Aw, bosh! Talk sense, man!” the finger-print expert complained.

Slimy Mead worked that day as usual, and the labor happened to be unusually hard. During the noon hour, when he was eating his lunch with the others on the shady side of the wharf, he thought of what had happened the night before, but tried to keep himself from dwelling on it too much. He kept reminding himself that his vengeance was secure—Drakker dead and Bull Harlon on his way to the electric chair for a crime which could never be traced to him.

On his way home that evening, Mead purchased a newspaper, folded it carefully, and put it into his coat pocket, as he had done every workday evening for months. He wanted to read of the tragedy, but he felt that he should deny himself the privilege for the time being. He did not want to do anything unusual, or make any move that would look suspicious.

At the boarding house, Mead went immediately to his room and tidied up for the evening meal. Then he took the newspaper from his pocket and read the account of the crime. Drakker had been found murdered, and Bull Harlon had been arrested. Every detail in the newspaper was exactly as Mead had anticipated it would be. The knife and the cuff button were mentioned, and the paper said that Harlon had admitted they were his property. Harlon's story was given space, too—and it looked like the poor falsehood of a desperate man.

Mamie Riley met Mead on the stairs as he started down to the little front porch to rest and talk with the others until the bell rang for supper.

“There was a man here looking for you to-day,” she said. “He said that he might come back this evening.”

“Who was he?” Mead asked.

“He didn't give me his name—he was just an ordinary-looking man. But he asked a lot of questions.”

“About me?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he want to know?” Mead asked, with his heart hammering at his ribs.

“He wanted to know how long you had been here, and if you ever were out late nights, and things like that. I'm not sure, but I think that he was a policeman.”

“I told you, Mamie, that I was sent up for vagrancy once. You know, the police always watch a man for a time when he comes out, to make sure that he is being straight and decent. I've got a good job now, and I'm behaving myself. So it's all right!”

The girl's eyes glistened, and she hurried on up the stairs. Mead looked after her. He even indulged in a flash of a dream concerning Mamie Riley. When this thing had passed safely, he might try to marry Mamie and settle down and have a home of his own.

But he worried a great deal about what she had told him. If the man who had called was connected with the police, why should he look up Mead at this juncture? It looked bad.

“I'm a fool!” Mead told himself. “They wouldn't suspect me in a thousand years. I'm sure I didn't make any mistake—and I'm sure that nobody saw me. They may ask me a few questions because I had a row with Drakker once. But I don't suppose they'll even do that now, since they have Harlon!”

He ate supper with the others, talking and laughing as usual, and then he went out on the little porch again and sat on the top step, engaging in the general conversation. The murder was discussed among other things, but Slimy Mead had little to say about it. He acted as though he was not at all interested in the affairs of those of the underworld, as though Drakker was nothing but a man's name, as far as he was concerned.

One by one, the others went away, and Mead sat on the step thinking it over. He told himself again that he had made no mistake, that the crime could not be traced to him. He had worn the gloves and so had left no finger prints behind. He had hidden the electric torch, the glass cutter, and even his blackjack, with which he had struck down Harlon in the alley. All he had to do, he told himself, was to be alert and maintain his innocence.

A man approached on the other side of the street, and Mead looked across at him with interest. And then his heart began hammering at his ribs again. He recognized the man—Detective Peter Noggins of the homicide squad.

Noggins looked across at him as he walked past. At the corner, the detective stopped and glanced back. Then he retraced his steps. He stopped across from Mead, and finally came directly toward him. Slimy Mead wet his dry lips with his tongue and tried to fight down his nervousness.

“You're Mead, aren't you?” Noggins asked.

“That's my name, sir.”

“I'm Detective Noggins, of headquarters.”

“I know you by sight, sir.”

“I'll want to have a little talk with you, Mead. May we go up to your room?”

“Why, certainly,” Mead said. “Just you come with me, Mr. Noggins. Been a hot day, hasn't it?”

Noggins grunted an assent. Mead led he way up the stairs and to the room, snapping on the light there as they entered. He motioned Detective Noggins to a chair, and then he stepped across to pull down the shade at the alley window.

At the window, he got another shock. There was a policeman in the alley, and was looking up at Mead's room.

Mead pulled down the shade, fought a moment for courage and self-possession, and then turned toward Noggins with a smile on his lips.

“What was it you wished to know, sir?” he asked.

“Read about the Drakker murder?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew Drakker, didn't you?”

“Slightly, sir. When I first came town I couldn't get work, and I got in with that crowd down there. Then I got six months for vagrancy. When I came out of the workhouse, I came down here and got a job and cut out all those people. I've been working hard, Mr. Noggins. You'll never get me for vagrancy again.”

“Know Harlon?” Noggins asked.

“Yes, in a way. He used to be one of the gang down there, and it was understood that he worked for Drakker. I saw in the newspaper that Harlon was arrested for the murder.”

“Yes,” said Noggins. “We found Harlon's knife and cuff button in the room, near Drakker's body. The gun was there, too—but I suppose you read all about that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you ever think, Mead, that Drakker and Harlon had you sent up for vagrancy that time, because they didn't like your manner toward them?”

Mead realized that this was dangerous ground. “Why, no, sir,” he said. “I don't think they'd have bothered with me to that extent. I didn't amount to much then; even in that class of men.”

“Counfound [sic] it, Mead, when you first came out of the workhouse you told several men that you believed Drakker had sent you there.”

“If—if I did, I've forgotten it, sir. I may have said such a thing. I was pretty sore. Six months in the workhouse is enough to make any man feel miserable.”

Noggins got up and walked to the alley window. He rolled up the shade and looked out.

“I've been investigating the Drakker affair,” he said, without turning.

“Does Harlon say that he did it?”

“On the contrary, he declares that he did not,” said Peter Noggins. “Have you been with Harlon recently?”

“No, sir. I've seen him on the street a couple of times, at a distance.”

“I was wondering whether you could help me,” Noggins said, turning from the window again. “Here is the knife we found in Drakker's room.”

He took it from his pocket. It was wrapped in a sheet of tissue paper, and Noggins carefully unrolled it and extended it toward Mead. “Do you know whether that is Harlon's?” the detective asked. “His name is on it, of course, but I want to identify this knife, if I can.”

“I never saw it before,” Mead answered quickly.

“Certain of that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And here is the cuff button,” Noggins went on, exhibiting it after returning the knife to his pocket. “Do you know whether that belongs to Harlon?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“Never saw it before?”

“I'm quite sure, Mr. Noggins, that I never saw a cuff button of exactly that pattern. Unusual thing, isn't it?”

“Yes—made to order, I understand, when Harlon happened to be flush with money. So you never saw either the knife or the cuff button before?”

“I did not,” said Mead.

Noggins wrapped up the button again and returned it to his pocket. He reached in another pocket—and suddenly he whipped out an automatic and covered Slimy Mead.

“Put them up!” he commanded.

“Wh-what does this mean, sir?” Mead stammered.

“I'm going to handcuff you,” said Noggins pleasantly, and he did so.

“But—I don't understand. If I'm wanted as a witness, sir, I'll come. But don't confine me as a witness, or I'll lose my job at the wharf.”

“You won't have any use for that job, Mead. I'm arresting you for the murder of Drakker.”

“Why—why that's ridiculous! How dare you do such a thing?”

Noggins looked at him closely. “Mead,” he said, “you know the old saw that a crook always makes some little mistake, no matter how clever he may be? Well, Mead, you made one little mistake. I think I have reconstructed the crime. You knew Drakker had you sent up, and you so you decided to kill him to get square. You came over here among decent folks, and you got a job and worked hard. And you went ahead with your plans.”

“But I”

“Wait, please, and I'll convince you. I suppose you slipped out last night and watched Drakker and Harlon. You knew that they quarreled. You probably gave Harlon that smash in the alley and took the knife and cuff button from him. During the night you slipped away from this room, did the murder, dropped those things near the body, and then came quietly back here.

“There were no finger prints on the revolver. Harlon was intoxicated last night, and if he had been careless enough to drop that knife and button he would have been careless enough to handle the revolver without gloves.”

“This isn't right, sir,” Mead protested. “Just because you think up a pretty theory like that, it isn't right to try to hang the crime on me. I'm working hard—I'll lose my job”

“Oh, stop that nonsense, Mead!” Noggins exclaimed. “You made one little mistake, I said. You were mighty careful about the revolver, and to keep from being seen. But, that knife and button—you declared to me that you never had seen them before.”

“That's the truth, sir.”

“Then does it how happen,” Peter Noggins questioned sternly, “that your finger prints are on them?”

Their eyes met and clashed. Blind terror was upon Slimy Mead now. He saw the slip he had made. He had not been wearing gloves when he took that knife and cuff button from Harlon. For an instant he fought for courage—and failed to acquire it. Noggins' eyes were blazing into his, accusingly. Mead gave up. He was the sort of man to quit when he found himself in a corner.

“A knife—a button,” he gasped. “You—you've got me!”