Noggins Shows His Nerve

OGGINS [sic]?” the chief of detectives said. “Noggins? He's the mildest and meekest detective the world ever saw, and it has seen some mild and meek ones, at that. Noggins? He's absolutely colorless and looks as though he knew he didn't amount to anything and thought he never would. It isn't a pose. It's just his way. Noggins? No strength, perhaps, and no nerve. But brains? Oh, man!”

The chief leaned back in his desk chair and made a gesture that was meant to indicate that he failed at the moment to find words to express the mental capacity of Detective Noggins.

“Remember the Sylvester Coolin case, don't you?” the chief said. “That powerful multimillionaire was sent up for life last week for a particularly brutal murder. If it hadn't been for Noggins, Sylvester Coolin would be walking our streets to-day, sneering at the common people and laughing in his sleeve because he had made fools of the police. Noggins did it!”

“No courage, you say?” asked the politician who was spending half an hour with the chief.

“He doesn't look courageous, and he never has shown courage,” the chief said. “He never has been called upon to show it. But what do I care? I've got brawn enough in the department, Heaven knows, and I need Noggins' brains. If necessary, I'll send a bodyguard with him whenever he goes to investigate a case. His work is smooth, take it from me, and quick. Noggins simply looks around, listens a bit, gets his common sense working—and brings in his man.”

“What does he look like?” the visitor asked.

“Gosh! I don't know. He isn't a man to impress you with his appearance. He is small and colorless, and that's all I can say. He is one of these men that it is difficult to describe. But when that brain of his gets to work! I hope he never gets in a tight corner, though, and shows the white feather. He'd never hear the last of it, brain or no brain, and it certainly would hurt his future work.”

Detective Noggins, unaware that he was the subject of conversation in the chief's office, was in the detectives' room at that moment, endeavoring to play a game of checkers with an old member of the force who had loafed around headquarters and played checkers for almost a quarter of a century. He played merely because the veteran in the service had asked him to do so. Noggins was not putting his mind on the game; hence he had small chance of emerging victor.

Just as the checker game came to an unexpected and undignified end, so far as Noggins was concerned, and the veteran lighted his pipe and began chuckling because of his easy victory, the buzzer sounded, and Detective Peter Noggins got up and moved slowly into the front office. Nobody was there except the desk sergeant.

“Man beat up, Noggins,” the sergeant explained. “He may die, the report says, and so you'd better hurry down there and get a line on the case, if he's able to talk. It may be a homicide affair. Here's the address.”

Noggins glanced at the slip of paper the sergeant handed him and went on toward the outer door. The address was at some distance, downtown in a district of cheap shops and questionable lodging houses and lodgings about which there was no question at all, in the minds of the police.

Out in the street Detective Noggins signaled the chauffeur of a taxicab, mentioned the address, and sprang into the machine. Noggins liked to ride in taxicabs at the city's expense, and gloated in his mild way whenever there was cause for haste and he felt that his conscience would allow him to engage one.

Down the broad avenue the cab rushed, and Noggins leaned back against the cushions and played that the taxicab was his private limousine, and that his own chauffeur was taking him down to the financial district for an important conference with bankers and the heads of big trust companies. Peter Noggins was a dreamer at times, but he never allowed his dreams to interfere with the realities of his work. He did not dream while he was at work on a case, but he did at odd hours.

Nor did he think any more of the case upon which he had been sent, for that, to Peter Noggins' way of reasoning, was but a waste of time. When he came face to face with the facts, he would gather them, analyze them, try to form a correct deduction from them, and then conduct himself accordingly.

Presently the taxicab was turned into a side street, and Detective Peter Noggins emerged from his dream and be came a bit more alert, for he knew that he was near his destination. Looking ahead, and down the street, he saw a small crowd before one of the shops, and sensed that there was the scene of the assault, or whatever it might prove to be. He signaled the chauffeur, and the cab drew in to the curb. Noggins paid the bill, took the chauffeur's voucher, and walked down the street toward the scene of disturbance.

Half a hundred men, women, and children of the district were crowded before the shop, which was that of a pawnbroker. Noggins could see a uniformed policeman on duty at the door, fighting to keep back the curious. Faces were glued to the dirty windows of the shop as their owners tried to peer inside.

Peter Noggins got through the crowd slowly, for the spectators seemed to resent his attempt to get near the front of the shop, and Noggins could not bring himself to announce his identity and command a path. But he finally got close enough for the patrolman to see him, and the uniformed officer cut a way through the tangled humanity with his stick and escorted Noggins to the front door.

“Nasty mess,” the patrolman said. “Old Cyrus Smalley—he's run this shop ever since I was a kid and used to live in this district. Beaten to a pulp. Got a doctor in there now, and they've sent in an ambulance call. Probably need the morgue wagon instead of an ambulance, though.”

Noggins remembered the instructions of his sergeant. If this old Cyrus Smalley could talk Noggins wanted to get some sort of a statement; if Smalley died it might be a homicide case.

The patrolman threw the door open, and Peter Noggins stepped inside the shop and blinked in the semigloom he found there. At the other end of the place there was a man stretched on the floor, another man working over him, and another policeman standing around ready to be of assistance.

Peter Noggins glanced quickly around the front of the shop. Dust—dust everywhere! A jumble of wares of all kinds. Old dishes, broken furniture, a tray of ancient rings of uncertain value, a case filled with all sorts of watches for both men and women—these things Noggins saw. To one side were racks of old clothes and a table covered with pairs of old shoes. This was a junk shop and pawnshop combined, a whimsical adventure in trade that had existed for years because of the peculiar needs of the neighborhood.

Noggins hurried the length of the shop and came to the rear. On every side there were evidences of a desperate fight.

“Made so much racket the whole neighborhood was aroused,” the policeman explained. “The old man's pretty badly beaten up.”

Noggins observed that two vases had been broken, probably by contact with a human head. A chair had been broken, too, and one of its rounds was on the floor, covered with a crimson stain. It had been used as a weapon.

And then Noggins went forward, and the doctor looked up at him.

“Can he talk?” Noggins asked.

“Yes, but make it as short as possible.”

“Hurt badly?”

The physician made a sign that meant the pawnbroker had but a short time to live. So Noggins beckoned the policeman nearer and knelt beside the dying man.

“I'm from police headquarters,” he said. “Can you understand? Tell me about this in a few words, if you can talk.”

Cyrus Smalley moaned with pain, opened his eyes, and nodded that he understood. And then the words came, slowly and painfully, and those who listened feared that every word would be the last.

“I'm—honest. I've always refused—to deal with crooks. Last month—I was a witness—in a burglary case. They tried to sell me—some of the stuff. They swore they'd—get me—the Grale gang! Grale—did this. Tried to make me buy—stolen stuff—so he could inform—on me. I refused—and he did this. Jim Grale—did”

Cyrus Smalley's head fell backward again, and he was unconscious.

“You heard?” Noggins asked the physician and the policeman. They nodded that they had.

“He's done for,” the doctor said. “It's a case of homicide, all right. He'll never last to get to the receiving hospital. Poor old devil! It's time the Grale gang was put in jail. That crowd has terrorized this section of the city for several years now. And all any of them ever got was a month or two for vagrancy. They've got everybody scared off, even some of the police.”

Just then the ambulance arrived, and Smalley was put into it and taken away. The physician disappeared after giving Peter Noggins his name and address. Noggins ordered the patrolman to lock the shop and remain on guard until a relief could be sent from headquarters. And then he pushed his way through the crowd, which was thinning out now, and walked slowly down the street.

The Grale gang! Jim Grale! Peter Noggins never had come in contact with that crowd before, but he had heard a lot about it. The Grale gang was one of the curses of the city. Jim Grale, the acknowledged leader, was a born gangster. He was known for his brutality, and the other members of his gang were brutes before all else. They gloried in their brutal strength, boasted of it, broke men at every opportunity to create a fear of them.

Noggings [sic] knew that what the physician hinted was the truth. Even some of the patrolmen working in that section of the city kept their hands off the Grale gang. Petty robberies and minor holdups were winked at. Jim Grale was a man to be avoided.

But here was a different case. Here was a case that promised to be of the homicide variety, and it could not be overlooked. And no patrolman was dealing with it, but Peter Noggins, of headquarters.

Noggins felt a bit of fear as he walked down the street, for he was painfully aware of his physical shortcomings. He had no business to go after the Grale gang singlehanded. But he did not care to telephone headquarters and ask for help. This was his case; he had been sent on it.

Three blocks down the street Noggins, who knew a great deal about the district, stepped into a pool hall of the poorer class, where men of questionable pursuits forgathered at times. It was an evil place, and those in it appeared evil. Behind a cigar case in the front was the proprietor, a thug, in his shirt sleeves.

Noggins walked up to the counter and beckoned to him, and the other approached.

“Seen Jim Grale?” Noggins asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“I do,” replied Noggins firmly.

The proprietor of the hall looked down at him and grinned.

“Maybe you'd better not find Grale,” he said. “You're a fly cop, ain't you?”

“I am,” Noggins said bravely. “Have you seen Jim Grale? I'm waiting for an answer.”

“No, I haven't seen Jim Grale, if you must know. But some of his particular friends are playing pool in the back room.”

Noggins walked into the back room and stood just inside the door. The raucus [sic] conversation ceased as he entered, and many furtive glances were cast in his direction. Not a man in the room but had reason to expect a visit from the police, and it was known that Noggins was of the police.

They continued their games, but they talked in whispers now. Peter Noggins looked them over carefully, but did not see Jim Grale. He took a few steps forward and questioned one of the players.

“Seen Jim Grale? I'm looking for him.”

“Better not find him,” the other replied, speaking from one corner of his mouth.

“Oh, I'll find him, all right, unless he's run away.”

“Jim Grale run away?” The other sneered. “I guess you haven't got him right.”

“I've got him right,” Noggins remarked. “He's a brute and a bully, if you ask me. He's a good-for-nothing!”

“Say! Jim Grale is my friend!”

“Then you're not particular in your choice of friends,” Noggins said. “Grale gave you instructions not to say where he had gone, did he? A bully is always a coward!”

“Jim Grale ain't afraid of you or all the other bulls, and he's got friends ready to back him up!”

“Well, he doesn't seem eager to show himself,” Noggins remarked. “If you should happen to run across him tell him that I'm wanting to ask him a few questions—if he isn't afraid to answer them.”

Noggins' face was white, but not necessarily from fear. Noggins always got angry when a man sought to defy the police. The other man looked him straight in the eyes for a moment and then glanced away. There was something disconcerting about Noggins.

“Grale might be at Casey's place, on the next corner,” Noggins was told. “And he may answer your questions with a bust on the jaw.”

“Oh, I scarcely think so,” Noggins said.

He deliberately turned his back, though he was close enough to receive a blow from the butt end of a billiard cue, went through the front room without so much as glancing at the proprietor, and stepped out into the street again. He went straight to Casey's on the next corner,

Casey's place had an evil name, too; worse than the one Noggins had just left. It was dominated by the Jim Grale gang, and was the scene of many brawls. The front room originally had been a bar of ill repute, and now it was cigar store, pool hall, loafing place. There were smaller rooms in the rear dating from the old days of private wine rooms.

Noggins swung through the swinging doors and entered. Casey himself was in front, talking to a thug. Half a dozen men were scattered around the room, some sitting at tables playing cards, others in close conversation regarding nefarious things.

Peter Noggins stepped up to Casey.

“Seen Jim Grale?” he demanded.

Casey hesitated and looked Noggins over before replying. Casey was a tough himself, but he did not want to make a mistake where the Jim Grale gang was concerned, for he feared its members.

“Who are you?” Casey asked.

“Noggins, police headquarters.”

“Oh, yes! You used to run around with Merriwale, didn't you?”

“I was paired with Detective Merriwale for a time,” Noggins said.

“And where is he?”

“Probably attending to his business somewhere,” Noggins replied.

“You're alone?”

“I am, if you want to know. And I asked whether you'd seen Jim Grale.”

“Alone, eh?” Casey laughed. He could not conceive of a man like this coming after Jim Grale alone. He suspected a trick.

“Have you seen Grale? Know where I can find him?” Noggins asked. “Or, is he hiding out?”

“I scarcely think Jim Grale would hide from you.”

“He seems to be doing that very thing,” Noggins retorted.

“Wait, and I'll see if I can find him.”

Noggins waited. Casey walked around the end of the cigar case and went down the length of the room. He passed through the short hall and opened the door of one of the old wine rooms. Two minutes later he was back

“If you want to see Jim Grale,” he said, “you'll find him in the last room to the right. He's waiting.”

Peter Noggins made no reply to that. Hie walked quickly the length of the resort, turned the knob of the door to that last room on the right, and opened it.

The room was about fifteen feet square. It had but the one door. There were two windows opening into a foul alley, but both were closed and the shades drawn before them. A single incandescent light glowed in the middle of the room, suspended from the ceiling by a cord.

At one end of the room was a table, and at this table sat Jim Grale and two of his thug lieutenants. Peter Noggins stepped into the room and looked them over. “I've been looking for you, Grale,” he said.

“So one of the boys telephoned from the other corner,” Grale said, his lips curling. “You're Noggins, aren't you?”

“That's my name.”

“Well, what do you want with me?”

“I want to take you to headquarters. You can't go around beating up old pawnbrokers, Grale, without something coming of it.”

“I don't get you.”

“Oh, you get me, all right. You beat old Smalley almost to death a short time ago. He was able to say it was you.”

“Maybe we had a bit of a row,” Grale said.

“Nothing of the sort! You went in their to beat him up, and you did it. Old Smalley wouldn't quarrel with anybody. Come along with me, Grale.”

Jim Grale leaned back against the wall in his chair and laughed, and his two companions joined in the laughter.

“And do you think you could take me in?” Grale asked. “Do you think any three cops could do it? Do you believe the whole department could do it, if they came down in this part of town and tried? Better run away, little man.”

“You're under arrest, Grale!”

“Say you so? Indeed!” Grale sneered, “It's a new sensation, eh, boys?”

They laughed again.

“Well, Mr. Fly Cop, we're going on with our little talk and card game, and we don't need any outsiders around. You've notified me that I'm under arrest. And now get out!”

Noggins, his face pale, took another step into the room. He was aware of the fact that there were other men of Grale's ilk in the little hall, and that perhaps word had been sent down the street and still others were coming to Casey's place.

“Grale, you're under arrest, and you're going with me,” Peter Noggins said.

“Don't make me laugh!” Grale warned. “You cops make me sick, Not one of you has nerve enough to handle a baby, not to mention a he-man!”

“You're far from being a he-man,” Noggins told him. “You're nothing but a bully and a thug!”

“I've had enough of that line of talk! You get out of here or you'll find yourself in a hospital alongside Smalley! Take me in? You make me laugh!”

“Why, there's nothing to it, Grale,” Noggins said. “You're wanted. I've found you, and I'm going to take you in. That's the whole thing, Grale, and you might as well get all other ideas out of your head!”

Grale got slowly to his feet, his face purple with wrath, his lips curling back to show his yellow teeth. He looked like a beast at bay. He waved a hand, and the door behind Detective Peter Noggins was slammed shut by some man in the hall. Noggins heard a bolt shot.

“So you're going to take me in, eh?” Jim Grale said. “Well, here's your chance to make a reputation, little man.”

Grale's two companions, grinning evilly, were upon their feet now, also, and looking to him for orders.

“It's time we taught the police another lesson,” Jim Grale said. “We're going to beat you up a little worse than Smalley was beaten, Mr. Fly Cop. We'll send you either to the hospital or the morgue. And half a dozen men, or more, will be ready to swear that you never were in here at all. You'll be found to-night half a mile from this place. Understand that? I gave you a chance to get out and save yourself, and you didn't do it. Now you'll be given your lesson. If you've got a gun on you we'll take it away from you and jam it down your throat, and your handcuffs, too. Take me in, will you?”

Peter Noggins was standing with his back against the wall now. He realized the great odds against him. Any one of these three men were more than a match for him physically. They were steeped in cruelty; they knew cruel methods not known to ordinary thugs. And in the little hall were other men ready to help.

But Detective Peter Noggins remembered only that he was a police officer under oath to do his duty. And his present duty was to take in Jim Grale for assault, and perhaps for homicide. Noggins felt some fear, but he did not show it to these men, unless it was by his white face.

Jim Grale advanced toward him, his gnarled hands outstretched as though to take Noggins by the throat and choke the life out of him, cruelty in the expression of his face, hatred of law and order and all their guardians gleaming in his eyes. The other two prepared to back up their leader if necessary; they both wanted at least a few blows at Noggins.

“I'll show you,” Jim Grale was saying in a hoarse whisper. “Take me in, will you? I'm gettin' tired of teaching you new cops a lesson. I'll make this a good one that'll be remembered for some little time. You'll know better than to come around this end of town trying to arrest people!”

Jim Grale's advance was slow, deliberate, more menacing than an angry rush. On he came, his brutal intention written in his features. Detective Peter Noggins felt his heart hammering at his ribs. He knew that he should act, but he seemed paralyzed. It was not fear exactly, though Noggins did not think himself at all courageous; it was a feeling of helplessness in the face of this situation.

Then the thought came to him that he was not Peter Noggins, but Detective Noggins, an officer of the law. The two personalities seemed detached. Peter Noggins ceased to exist for the time being, and only Officer Noggins remained. And Officer Noggins had a duty to perform. He was forced to attempt it, no matter what the circumstances.

Noggins seemed to come alive suddenly. His gun was in his hip pocket, and he knew that if he attemped [sic] to get it out, Jim Grale and the others would be upon him before he could succeed. His right hand was grasping the back of a chair that stood against a wall. It was an ordinary pine chair, light in weight. Noggins knew that, if he smashed at a man with it, it would break.

But he did not intend to smash at a man with it first. Suddenly, with Jim Grale less than six feet from him, he grasped the chair firmly, swung it up, and darted to one side. Grale charged, but went past Noggins and crashed against the wall. As he turned, and the others started to close in, Noggins took another swift step, this time forward, and swung the chair through the air. It crashed against the single incandescent light, and the room was plunged in darkness.

Noggins hurled the chair through the darkness toward where the two companion thugs of Jim Grale had been standing, heard it crash against them, and heard their sudden oaths. Once more a man ran against a wall. But Peter Noggins had darted away, to the nearest corner, and now he had time to get out his service revolver.

Noggins had them at a slight disadvantage. Noggins knew that any man with whom he might collide in that dark room would be a foe, whereas they might clash with one another. He felt a man brush against him and swung the heavy revolver. It crashed against a shoulder, and Noggins darted away again, knowing that he had not delivered a blow that would fell an adversary.

Jim Grale had been shouting. The door suddenly was thrown open, and a fitful light struggled in from the hall. It revealed Noggins to his enemies, and Noggins, in turn, saw evil faces peering in. He threw up the revolver, and, as it spoke once, Jim Grale and the other two were upon him.

The weapon was torn from his grasp, and Noggins darted backward again, the others after him. With his back against the wall he began fighting as a desperate man fights. He knew that he battled against fearful odds, and that the outcome of the fight could be only one thing; yet he did the best he could. He felt no hatred, no fear now He was merely Detective Noggins, trying his best to perform his duty.

Blows crashed against his head, his breast; a kick against one of his hips brought great pain. Noggins lowered his head and fought on. He heard Jim Grale ordering one of the others aside, because he was in the way. He realized that Grale stood before him alone, a hideous grin on his face, determined to settle this officer of the law himself. Noggins struck at the grinning face.

His blow landed, but not with force. And then Jim Grale was upon him, sending in a shower of cruel blows, laughing as he fought, beating Detective Noggins down.

Noggins felt his senses going. He was on his knees now, unable to shield himself, unable to get in a blow that would count. As in a dream he saw the evil faces in the doorway, heard the low laughter. And then a blow stretched him flat on the floor, a kick against his ribs brought a groan from his lips, and Jim Grale stepped back.

“That'll do for a time,” he heard Grale saying thickly. “We don't want to finish it until dark, so we can cart him away from Casey's place and say he never was here. We'll lock him in here for a while; he won't get out, I guess.”

Peter Noggins was on the verge of unconsciousness when he heard that speech. It seemed to him that he tried to rise and continue the combat, show that he was not done, but it was an effort of the will only. His body did not move, except in a twitch that told he would be in the land of blackness soon,

He seemed to sense that they were leaving him, heard the door slam and voices fading away, and the blackness came; but Noggins was not sure at first whether it was because the door had been closed or whether it was unconsciousness.

As a matter of fact, it was unconsciouses.

Peter Noggins returned from it to realize that his body was a nest of pains. He was in darkness, alone in the room. From the room in front came the sound of raucous laughter, and Noggins supposed that Jim Grale and his crowd were celebrating his downfall.

He managed to sit up on the floor, and for a time was dizzy and weak. He knew that one of his eyes was closed, that his cheeks were swollen where Grale's blows had landed. His side was sore where Grale had kicked him,

Noggins braced himself against the wall and struggled to his feet. Nausea claimed him for a moment, and then he took a series of deep breaths and felt better. Walking as quietly as he could he went along the wall until he came to the nearest window that opened upon the alley.

He lifted one corner of the shade, and found that it had been tacked to the frame. Working slowly and silently, Noggins tore it around the tacks and lifted it more. Between him and the alley was a window so dirty that a man scarcely could see through it. Noggins saw that it was almost dusk. They would be coming back soon, then—coming back to beat him into insensibility and to carry him some distance away and put him where he probably would be found in the morning.

Noggins rolled the shade up its entire length and looked around the room. He staggered away a few feet and returned with a piece of the broken chair. He waited until the burst of laughter in the front room came again, and crashed the chair through the window. His previous investigation had shown him that the casement was nailed shut.

He worked as swiftly as possible now, for he was afraid that the crash of glass had been heard in the front room or in the little hallway. But evidently it had not been heard for nobody rushed in to molest him. Noggins got slowly and painfully through the window, fell to the ground in the filthy alley, and remained there for an instant, breathing heavily.

In an instant he was on his feet again. He was out—free. He had but to stagger to the nearest street, look for a patrolman, or go to a report box and send in a call for help. But Peter Noggins did not think of doing any of those things. His brain scarcely was acting normally after the punishment he had received. He thought only that he had been sent on a case, that he had made an arrest, and that the arrest had been taken as naught. His job was to take Jim Grale to headquarters and enter a charge against him. And he had no gun, no handcuffs; possibly they were to be retained by Jim Grale's gang as souvenirs of a pleasant occasion.

Noggins staggered down the alley toward the nearest street. Just before he reached it he noticed a dripping water tap in a wall, He turned the water on and bathed his battered face, then drank deeply. After that he felt better.

He went on to the mouth of the alley and stood there for a moment, resting. His strength was coming back to him, and his determination remained. Some of the passers-by looked at him and grinned. They did not recognize him as an officer, but only as somebody who had got the worst of a fight. A battered face was nothing to excite more than passing comment in that locality.

Across the street was a small provision store kept by a foreigner. Noggins stumbled across and entered the place, to find the proprietor behind the counter.

“I'm an officer,” Noggins said, showing his shield. “Have you a gun?”

The store man hesitated.

“I want to borrow it,” Noggins said firmly. “Hand it over, and be quick about it, or I'll take you in.”

The storekeeper jabbered at him in some foreign language, but Noggins did not know whether it was Italian or Greek. But he motioned again, and the gun was taken from behind the counter and handed to him. Noggins broke it, saw that it was loaded, inspected it carefully, and put it into a pocket of his coat.

“I'll return it later,” he said.

He went out into the street again, walking to the corner, and turned down toward Casey's place, hatless, his face bruised and puffed, but his manner far from being that of a beaten man.

As he reached Casey's place he hesitated. In a few minutes, he knew, the lights would go flashing, and Jim Grale and his friends would go into that rear room to finish their victim—if they had not already discovered his escape.

His hand in his coat pocket gripping the gun, Peter Noggins kicked open the swinging doors and entered. Casey was behind the counter that formerly had been a bar, and Jim Grale and half a dozen of his friends were sitting at the tables against the wall.

They looked up when Noggins entered and Casey gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing Noggins' puffed and bruised face and the glint in his eyes.

“Grale, I want you!”

The words were like the snaps of a whip. There was silence for a moment, and then Jim Grale laughed nervously.

“Got out of your cage and came around in front, did you? Well, we can put you back again—and fix you so you'll stay!”

“I want you, Grale!”

Grale sneered and got out of his chair, three of the others following his example.

“You'll get more of me than you want,” Grale said.

“Come here—and come alone! You others stay where you are!” Noggins commanded.

“Think you're the colonel of the regiment, do you?” Jim Grale asked, laughing again.

Now they started toward him briskly, and Noggins knew that it would not be policy to let them crowd forward to him. He took his hand from his pocket, and they saw the gleam of the weapon.

“Put up your hands and come here and you others stay back!” Noggins commanded.

It was a moment of crisis. Jim Grale hissed something from the corner of his mouth. Noggins sensed rather than saw that Casey's hand dived below the counter and came up with a weapon. For an instant Noggins' hand swerved, his borrowed revolver spoke, and Casey dropped his gun and reeled backward with a bullet in the upper part of his right arm.

One of the other thugs had whipped out a revolver now. Noggins fired again, and the bullet whistled past the man's head. An answering shot came, and Noggins felt a blow on his left shoulder. Once more he shot, and his assailant fell.

The others rushed toward the hall and the alley door. Noggins sent a bullet flying over their heads. And then he darted toward Jim Grale.

“Coming?” he demanded.

Grale, for once, had been caught without a gun. Fearing arrest for beating the pawnbroker, he had rid himself of his gun purposely, knowing it would go harder with him if he was taken into custody while armed. And now, as he watched Noggins advance, and saw the menacing muzzle of the revolver, Jim Grale cringed against the wall. He was a coward any time he did not hold a decided advantage, and Noggins had read him right.

“Come!” Noggins commanded.

His hands held high above his head, Jim Grale advanced. Noggins forced him to stand against the counter, his back turned.

“Casey, toss me some rope!” Noggins commanded.

Casey reached beneath the counter again. There was a heavy wrench in his hand, but he glanced once at Noggins and made up his mind not to throw it. Noggins was watching carefully, and held the revolver ready. Casey tossed the rope on the counter and clutched at his wounded arm again.

“Put your wrists together behind your back,” Noggins commanded Jim Grale.

Grale obeyed. It was with difficulty that Noggins lashed his wrists, for his own wounded shoulder was giving him a great deal of pain and trouble now. It seemed to be filled with red-hot needles.

“Stand there!” Noggins commanded, when he was done.

The revolver still held ready, Noggins stepped to the end of the counter and reached for the telephone receiver. He could not use his left arm now, so he put the revolver on the counter while he talked. But Grale could not make a move, and Casey did not dare with Noggins watching him, ready to drop the receiver and grasp the revolver again,

Noggins called headquarters and put in a hurry call. And then he picked up the revolver and watched his prisoner.

A man swung through the doors.

“This place is closed at present. Get out!” Noggins commanded.

He knew that Grale's friends had gone for help, that any minute there might be a rush. It was a race between his comrades and his foes.

And then came the welcome sound of a clanging gong. A moment later half a dozen uniformed officers stumbled into the place.

“Take this man—wanted for murderous assault,” Noggins said. “Same charge against Casey, here. And there's a wounded man over in the corner who needs attention.”

He walked away from the end of the counter now, staggering a little. He held one of the doors aside while the prisoners were taken out. Then he ordered one of the patrolmen to shut Casey's place and got into the wagon himself.

Peter Noggins said nothing during the drive, and he was asked no questions. The other officers looked at him in wonder, for it had been their opinion that Noggins had no nerve, though he did possess brains. Their opinions were being changed.

Headquarters, finally, and Noggins staggered inside, his prisoners being escorted behind him.

“Jim Grale, murderous assault,” he said.

“Murder, you mean. Old Smalley is dead,” the desk sergeant said.

“And Casey and the other—firing on an officer in discharge of his duty,” Peter Noggins added.

“Good haul,” commented the astonished sergeant. “Arresting officers were”

“Just me,” Noggins said.

“You—you didn't have any help?”

“Didn't need any,” said Noggins.

And then he swayed, and would have fallen had not one of the officers supported him.

“Must have—surgeon, said Noggins. “Got shot—through shoulder.”

The chief of detectives was talking to his political friend again.

“Noggins?” he said. “Brains—and nerve! Let me tell you what Noggins did yesterday”