Cops Are Smart, Too

Short Stories, August 10, 1942

COPS ARE SMART, TOO

By GEORGE ARMIN SHAFTEL Author of “Money for Sale,” etc.

“C

ALLING Car 56! Rush to 505 Broadway. Prowler seen in alley. Investigate.” The order rasped out of the radio under the dash of Dennis Ryan’s police car. He got under way like a rocket, juicing his prowl car into a screaming rush toward Broadway. An icy tingle crept along the back of his neck. Suppose that prowler was a loft thief, and had two-three partners? All of a sudden, Dennis Ryan felt as lonesome as a bull-pup in a cage of lions. For tonight was the first night that the city’s police cars were operating with one

man, instead of two. In the name of economy and efficiency, the city managers had streamlined the police force. “Come on, quit griping,” Ryan growled at himself. “If you can’t handle a loft thief by yourself, turn in your badge and start raising chickens.” 505 Broadway was a big storage building which employed a watchman, and was equipped with burglar alarms. A risky place to loot, Ryan reflected as he braked his car to a stop at the curb beside the building. But lots to steal if you could manage it. Only shrewd, tough thieves would attempt it. Ryan’s stubby hand

SHORT STORIES tightened around the butt of his police special as he jumped from the prowl car. Abruptly he stopped. Turned back to the car. From his pockets he pulled out his wallet and a fine old watch. These he thrust inside the dash compartment of the car. In the compartment was a shiny crescent of metal—a horseshoe thrown by Beachcomber II at Santa Anita the afternoon he came in and paid Ryan 47 bucks on each of three $2 tickets. For an instant Ryan’s thick fingers touched the smooth metal. Then he got busy. Along the dark sidewalk toward the alley he ran. A short, stocky man, he carried his compact bulk with the steely springness of a bobcat. The alley was empty. But the street lamps did not spill light into the dark doorways and back entrances. Tautnerved, Ryan strode swiftly to the rear door of the storage building. The knob turned to his palm, and the door swung inward to his push. The door should have been locked. For an instant Ryan hesitated, peering into the dark interior of the building. He saw nothing and heard nothing; but if a man with a cocked gun crouched back of a crate in there, waiting, he wouldn’t buzz a warning like a rattlesnake. Ryan caught a sharp breath, and switched on his flashlight. A man lay on the floor in the corridor. “Come on, come on,” Ryan growled at himself. “Look at him! If he’s dead, look for the killer.” Shielding his flashlight, he bent over the man on the floor. It was Luke Carney, the night watchman. But he wasn’t dead. He was snoring, breathing of fumes of alcohol like a fumigating machine. He shifted irritably, as if annoyed in his sleep at prospect of being wakened up. He was lying on a

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canvas tarp, and had a coat pulled over him and a seat cushion for a pillow. “All the comforts of home,” Ryan growled.

H

E REACHED to shake Carney awake—and froze, listening. Footsteps. The creak of a door sliding open. Across the long, crate-filled room, in the darkness. Ryan instantly put out his flashlight, and started running down a corridor between concrete posts, on tiptoe. He reached the elevator shaft, and heard the whine and grind of the motors. Turning his light on the floor-indicator dial, he saw that the elevator was rising— 4th, 5th floor—and still going up. So he whirled to the stairway, and started sprinting up the iron stairs in the concrete well, gun leveled in his hand. At the 6th floor, he paused to look at the elevator dial again. The elevator was at the 9th, and still going. But the tenth floor was the top. Ryan swore, and sprinted on up the stairs. Reaching the tenth floor, he found the elevator door open. But across the room he heard stealthy footsteps, and he saw the beam of a small flashlight moving down a corridor between bins toward the iron door of a concrete vault in which valuables were kept. Ryan almost said, “Aha!” as he saw where the prowler was headed. Following, he got closer to the man. The prowler was a sawed-off little mug, and he was carrying something bulky. He stopped in front of the built-in concrete vault, and turned his flashlight beam on the iron door. Ryan stuck his pistol against the man’s back, grated, “Don’t move!” and switched his flashlight on. He looked into the scared, white face of a boy, a mere kid. Freckled, sandyhaired, his blue eyes wide with fright, the

COPS ARE SMART, TOO lad blinked in the light and bit his trembling lip to keep from crying. And Ryan, realizing that the kid probably was only twelve or thirteen years old, stared in dumbfounded surprise. “Say, what is this? How’d you get in here? What you up to?” The boy swallowed hard. He didn’t answer, and tried to set his jaw in defiance, but his chin quivered. “Come on,” Ryan demanded, feeling like a loud-mouth bully, but too upset to follow the police school rules about handling kids, “what’s your name? What you doing here?” “My name’s Mike C-Carney.” “Carney! Why—the night watchman any kin to you?” “My brother,” the lad stammered. “What you doing here? What you got in that laundry sack?” Ryan savagely jerked the sack open— and his flashlight gleamed on rich, sleek furs. He swore in amazement. “Stealing furs out of storage!” “I’m not stealing them!” The boy’s voice was shrill with fright and worry. “Then what are you doing? Come on, spill it.” The lad angrily wiped at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “You got to let me tell it all.” “You bet you’ll tell it all,” Dennis Ryan snapped grimly. “Well, Luke’s been sick.” “Your brother? The night watchman?” “Yeah. It’s his heart. He says—he says it won’t— Anyway, he’s started drinking bad again.” “Don’t lie to me. He can’t drink and stay on the job at night. He has to keep punching time clocks every so often, or we’d be busting in here to see why not,” Ryan said roughly. “I punch the clocks,” the boy said. Ryan’s high-colored face mottled with

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crimson, and he choked back an oath. “Well, go on! This sack of furs—” “Luke knows he’ll be canned, soon’s the boss finds out. He’s liable to—just drop, any time. So—Mister, he wasn’t doing it for himself. He wanted money for me and Tiny.” “So he stole these furs? That what you’re trying to say?” “That’s right.” The boy blinked angrily, but couldn’t keep back scalding tears. “But, look, Mister, I’ve brought ‘em back—” “Is that what you’re doing here?” “Yeah. You got to believe me!” The boy’s voice broke shrilly. “Luke’s not a crook, honest: He just can’t—do no better. I mean, he thought he had to do something—” “Who’s Tiny?” Ryan demanded. “Sis.” “Your big sister?” “She’s four.” “Oh—So you were bringin’ these furs back, huh?” “Yeah. Luke would’a done it himself, soon’s he got sober. Look, Mister. Can’t we just put ‘em back in the vault? Then nobody’ll know Luke stole ‘em. Can’t we, huh?” Oblivious of the gun in Ryan’s hand, he was holding onto Ryan’s arm, begging. “The vault’s locked.” “I got the keys off of Luke. Here.” “But don’t you know the minute you touched that vault door, a burglar alarm’d go off at Police Headquarters?” Ryan said angrily. And he muttered, “Dumb kid!” as he sorted the keys, and fitted the proper one into the vault door. Instantly a shrill, metallic ringing resounded through the dark building. But Ryan coolly and methodically sorted the furs from the laundry sack and hung a chinchilla jacket, mink coats, silver-fox capes and neckpieces onto racks. The kid

SHORT STORIES watched, big-eyed and pale. “All right,” Ryan snapped. “You git on home, now.” “B-but I got to punch the time clocks—” “Forget it. That’ll be taken care of,” Ryan muttered. Thought of the kid up all night, going the dark rounds of the warehouse to punch the time clocks, made Ryan growl deep in his throat. Back on the street floor, Ryan phoned Police Headquarters. “I’m at the Acme Storage Company,” he told the dispatcher. “I—that is, me’n Carney, we been hunting for the prowler somebody reported. We tripped off the burglar alarm. Naw, no prowler. Must’ve been some guy oozin’ down the alley to sleep under a wagon somewheres.”

H

E WAS sweating, when he hung up. And he scowled as he noticed how the kid was staring at him, so much of gratitude on his thin, dark-shadowed young face. ‘‘I’m taking you home, kid. To search the place. And so help me, if I find stolen stuff there, I’ll slam you into the hoosegow alongside your brother!” The boy fell in step beside him; and put his hand in Ryan’s in such an unthinking, small-boyish way that Ryan almost choked. He didn’t jerk away, but walked fast to the prowl car. The kid said nothing as Ryan tooled the Hudson down the street. Just breathed an awed, “Gee!” as the car screamed up to fifty in second, and the dispatcher’s voice rasped from the radio. At 4404 Marengo Street, Ryan walked up three flights of stairs with young Mike. To a dingy, poorly furnished two-room apartment. “You won’t wake up Tiny, will you?” the boy whispered as Ryan started searching the place. “Naw!” Ryan snapped, glancing at the

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kid asleep on the crib. She had yellow curls as fat as doughnuts, and she slept as if she dreamed of Shirley Temple dolls and all-day suckers. “Go on to bed, you.” Ryan found nothing that looked like loot or swag. Or anything else much, for that matter. In the kitchen cupboard was some salami and half a loaf of bread, and a half-bottle of bluish milk. Salami—for a four-year-old! “Good-night, Mister,” the boy whispered. “Aw, go to sleep,” Ryan growled, and departed. He drove, then, to the home of Loren McCasslan. McCasslan was manager of the Acme Storage Company. When Ryan rang the bell, McCasslan himself—in a dinner coat—answered. He’d evidently just returned from a late party. “What is it, Officer?” Ryan stepped inside; and quickly told the whole story; winding up with, “And so, realizing he’s going to drop dead one of these days, Luke Carney stole those furs in a try to get a wad of money for the two kids.” “So what?” McCasslan retorted worriedly. He was a big, dark-haired man with a fleshy, amiable face and shrewd eyes. “I can’t have a night watchman who’ll maybe drop dead when he’s needed most! Man, those furs in that vault—Hell, chinchilla is damn near worth its weight in gold!” “That’s why I’m telling you what happened,” Ryan said. “You’ve got to replace Luke Carney. But can’t you give him another job of some kind? It won’t be for long.” “No, I— Aw, hell, sure I can.” McCasslan grinned shamefacedly. “What’s more, we carry insurance on our employees. Maybe it can be worked out so that, when he goes, there’ll be some dough

COPS ARE SMART, TOO for the kids.” “Say, that’s swell!” All of a sudden Ryan felt self-conscious and embarrassed. “Well, g-good-night!” And he even added the sir he usually saved for the mayor or police commissioners. Going off duty, in the morning, Ryan drove out to the beach for a quick swim; then, in a beach shack owned by his cousin who was in the local FBI office, he lay down to sleep the dreamless sleep of the just. COP HUNTED IN THEFT OF VALUABLE FURS Ryan, on his way back to the precinct station in late afternoon, had stopped to buy a paper. The headline screamed at him. Thunderstruck, he went on to read: “Loren McCasslan, manager of Acme m Storage Company, has reported to the police that valuable furs stored in his vault are missing, and that in their place someone has left cheap dyed skins.” Ryan’s heart skipped a beat. Anger and dismay kicking his pulse into a stuttering race, he read on: “It is just an accident, Mr. McCasslan reveals, that he discovered the furs had been switched. Ordinarily, furs in storage may go for months without inspection. But he had occasion to look into the vault this morning, and on impulse examined the furs. “Mr. McCasslan has asked police to question Patrolman Dennis Ryan, who last night visited the storage building in response to a report that a prowler was seen behind the storage building. The police are withholding data on the theft, but Mr. McCasslan reveals that among the missing furs are items which had been on display at the National Furriers’

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Convention last month, and include a chinchilla wrap priced at $28,000, a mink cloak worth $12,000, some silver fox skins worth $5,000 apiece, and other items which bring the loss figures up to $60,000. The furs were insured. “Mr. McCasslan told reporters, ‘Obviously, the cheaper furs—mostly different dyes of rabbit—were left in place of the valuable ones in order to postpone discovery of the theft as long as possible.’ When asked just how the police officer, Dennis Ryan, figured in the theft, McCasslan revealed that he thought that either the policeman had been a dupe of the real thieves—or that he was not an officer at all, but a crook impersonating a policeman—” Ryan swore in rage. He’d been played for a sucker. By a kid, and a drunken bum of a night watchman! He’d been so damn sorry for them, and had worked so hard to help them. And all the time they’d been using him! “By God, they won’t get away with it!” Instead of continuing to the precinct station to report for duty, he drove toward 4404 Marengo like a hook-and-ladder wagon headed for a four-alarm fire. Icy tingles of fear played up his spine. By now, maybe Luke Carney was gone. And the loot with him. If so, a copper named Dennis Ryan was already sliding down greased skids into a San Quentin jute mill! Braking to a squealing stop in front of the Carney apartment house, he jumped out, and swarmed up the three flights of stairs to the Carney apartment. He didn’t bother to knock: but twisted the knob and burst into the dingy apartments— And froze in his tracks. The Carneys were not gone. They were here, all right. All of them. Haggard-faced Luke, young Mike, and Tiny with the yellow

SHORT STORIES curls. Tiny sat on the crib, her fist in her mouth, wide-eyed. And young Mike was standing beside Luke, shaking him by the shoulder and saying “Luke! Luke!” in a voice hollow with terror. On the table in front of the night watchman was a copy of that newspaper with the headline: COP HUNTED IN THEFT OF VALUABLE FURS. And Ryan, looking at Luke Carney’s face, realized why Luke wasn’t answering the boy. The shock of that newspaper article had been the one, final jar which the night watchman’s alcoholic heart had not been able to stand. Luke Carney was dead. First, Ryan tried to soothe the kids. Then he told young Mike to dress Tiny; they were going out. Mike looked dazed and sick. He didn’t cry or argue, but obeyed. Then Ryan searched the apartment for the stolen furs. And found nothing. “Leave Tiny a minute, Mike, and come outside.” The boy obeyed. When they had shut the door so that Tiny couldn’t see, Ryan grabbed Mike by the throat with one hand and shook a big fist in the boy’s face. “Now you tell me where Luke hid those stolen furs at I’ll beat your head off and throw you in jail, you lyin’ punk!” “Mister Ryan, I t-told you all about it last night. We put back the furs Luke stole. There ain’t no others. Honest!” Ryan looked into the boy’s griefshadowed eyes. Suddenly feeling as if he were something that ought to be stepped on and squashed, he put his arm about the boy’s shoulders and looked away, blinking. “Look, Mike. We got to beat it. They think we’re thieves, see? “I’ll phone a hospital and the ambulance will come get

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Luke. So don’t worry about him. Get Tiny.”

R

YAN didn’t report for duty. Driving the kids out to the beach shack, he racked his brain. What should he do? He hadn’t stolen those furs. Neither had Luke Carney or young Mike. So who had? After dark, Ryan drove to the home of the manager of the Acme Storage Company. A manservant answered Ryan’s ring. “I want to see Mr. McCasslan.” “He’s not in.” “I’ll wait.” “Sorry, sir, but—” Ryan’s heavy brogan stepped on the manservant’s toes, and Ryan’s police special yawned in the man’s face. He backed away. “Sit down somewhere,” Ryan said, entering. “Play solitaire, or look at Life— anything, so long as you keep your pants glued into a chair.” The guy had more guts than wisdom. He jumped for Ryan—and Ryan stretched him cold on the rug with a swipe of his gun barrel. Then Ryan headed for the basement, intending to search the house from the bottom. He searched the trunk room, wood bin, and rumpus room and lockers under the stairway, and found nothing but two black widow spiders. He went upstairs. To the master bedroom, and started looking behind pictures for a possible wall safe. “Maybe I can be of assistance?” Ryan whirled, reaching for his gun. “Don’t touch it!” In the doorway stood big, heavy-set Loren McCasslan, an automatic pistol in his hand. And then, from out in the hall, Ryan heard the manservant saying into a telephone: “Police Department, please! And hurry, operator!”

COPS ARE SMART, TOO “So,” McCasslan rasped at him, “a haul of furs wasn’t enough. You’ve come here for some loot.” Ryan grinned wryly; a dancing glint in his gray eyes. “Put your gun down, McCasslan. I don’t want to hurt you.” “Sure, in a pig’s valise. Don’t move.” “It hasn’t occurred to you that maybe I’ve got a partner?” Ryan said easily. “Put that gun down, or I’ll give ‘im the nod to bat your brains out. Put it down!” he shouted—and as McCasslan started, and jerked a glance over his shoulder into the hall, Ryan crashed the big floor lamp beside him to the floor, and flung himself sideways as he whipped his own gun from its holster. McCasslan’s weapon belched fire; and Ryan’s gun spoke, and McCasslan howled with pain, and turned to run. Ryan leaped after him, caught him in the hall. McCasslan’s arm was blotched with blood, and his gun was on the floor. The manservant dropped the telephone and fled into the kitchen, headed for the back door. With his gun, Ryan prodded McCasslan out the front door. “You’re coming with me. Get into my car.” As they pulled away from the curb, McCasslan demanded, “Mind telling me what in hell this is all about?” “Sure. About a bunch of furs worth sixty grand.” “Which you and Luke Carney stole!” “No. Which you stole, McCasslan.” “You crazy?” “No, but you are, if you think you’ll get away with it,” Ryan snapped. “Carney and I didn’t steal those valuable furs. The furs that Carney did take, and which I put back in your vault last night, were cheap imitations. The valuable furs were stolen before last night.”

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“You gone stark, raving nuts?” “It was the cheap varieties which Carney stole, and that I returned,” Ryan repeated. “You stole the valuable furs. And when I came to you last night, and told you what had happened at the warehouse, you saw a chance to cover up your robbery and make us the fall guys. So this morning you told the police that the night watchman and I had looted your vault.” Coolly McCasslan retorted, “Onto grand larceny, Ryan, you’re adding assault with a deadly weapon, and kidnaping. This spells your finish, guy.” He said it with calm certainty. And Ryan, realizing how truly McCasslan spoke, felt suddenly sick and giddy with panic. His knuckles gleamed whitely on the steering wheel. Ryan turned to the curb and braked his car to a stop. “This is Dr. Morton’s home, McCasslan. He’ll bind up your wound.”

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R. MORTON was home. He ushered them into his inner office. A small, white-haired man with keen dark eyes, he looked over McCasslan’s arm and, said mildly, “I have to report all gunshot wounds to Headquarters.” McCasslan’s shrewd eyes glinted with sudden satisfaction. Ryan said, “Sure, but you’ll wait until you’re through with your patient, won’t you, Doc?” “Naturally. “ Dr. Morton cleaned and wrapped the wound. Straightened up. “Wait, Doc,” Ryan said harshly. “We are not through yet. Look, you’ve got a sphygmomanometer?” “A blood pressure gauge? Of course.” “You can tell small changes of blood pressure with it?” “I can.”

SHORT STORIES “Ever hear of the Keeler Polygraph?” “Why, yes. It’s a sphygmomanometer, but instead of a dial it has a gadget to trace changes of blood pressure in ink on paper. It’s one of the lie-detector machines.” “Yeah,” said Ryan, looking hard at McCasslan. “Last summer, McCasslan, I went to the FBI training School for six weeks. Doc, strap your sphygmomanometer onto this man’s arm.” “Like hell!” McCasslan raged, drawing away. “Then you’ve got something to hide?” Ryan demanded. “No, hell no, but— Oh, go ahead! Monkey around, I don’t give a damn!” The doctor wrapped the flat rubber tube of the blood pressure gauge onto McCasslan’s arm, pumped some air into it, and studied the dial. Ryan said, “Doc, got a magnifying glass? Hold it over the dial. You’ll be able to catch smaller changes of pressure.” “Say, that’s smart. I have just the glass.” “Okay,” Ryan said, catching a sharp breath of tension as preparations were finally made. “Doc, I’ll ask McCasslan questions. If he answers truthfully, his blood pressure won’t change. But every time he lies, the pressure will jump. You jot down the times it jumps. McCasslan, you married?” “No.” “Hire any servants beside that manservant at your house?” “No.” “Did you steal those furs from your vault?” “No!” McCasslan almost yelled it. And Dr. Morton made a notation on a sheet of paper. “Did you go to college?” “Yes.” “Did you hide those stolen furs in your home?”

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“I did not.” “Did you hide them in your warehouse?” “Blast you, I didn’t steal those furs!” “Have you a criminal record?” “No, and you can verify that damn easy.” “Did you hide the stolen furs on the first floor of your warehouse?” “I didn’t steal them, I tell you!” “Did you hide them in your warehouse office?” “No. No!” On and on, monotonously, for almost an hour, Ryan asked questions. Then held a whispered consultation with Dr. Morton, and studied the notes the doctor had made. “Doc, you’ve been swell,” Ryan said huskily, then. “Guess you better report this bullet wound you treated to the lieutenant. But that’s all you got to report, isn’t it?” “That’s all.” “Thanks. Come on, McCasslan!” Ryan ordered. In his car again, Ryan drove across town. His innards were knotted with suspense. Dr. Morton’s report would set prowl cars hunting him. And if he were picked up, now— Well, McCasslan was right. He’d rot in prison for most of the rest of his life. In front of the Acme Storage Company, Ryan stopped his car. “Come on, McCasslan! We’re going inside. Tell your new watchman to go on about his rounds, that you and I got some private business.” McCasslan looked stubborn, but a prod from Ryan’s gun started him moving. Obeying orders, he spoke a word to the night watchman, then led Ryan to the elevator. “Sixth floor,” Ryan said. And as they started up, he explained, “Fellah, that lie detector test gave you away. Every time I asked you a question which you answered

COPS ARE SMART, TOO with a lie, your blood pressure jumped. And it jumped highest, time and again, when I asked if you’d hidden those furs in your warehouse office.” “So what? Lie-detector evidence ain’t accepted in court!” “And right here in your office,” Ryan snapped, “I’ll find those furs you stole.” “You’re crazy as hell! You can’t get away with this—” Abruptly he jumped at Ryan, so suddenly and violently that he clawed the gun out of Ryan’s hand. And as Ryan stooped to snatch the gun, McCasslan drove his knee into Ryan’s face with brain-staggering force. Ryan fell, but blindly he scooped McCasslan’s legs out from under him as he dropped, spilling the older man. And Ryan, though blinded with pain, stuck his finger into McCasslan’s back and rasped, “Lie still, or I’ll pump six slugs into you!” McCasslan froze. Ryan fumbled, found his gun with his other hand. For a moment he rested, catching his breath. “Walk ahead of me into your office,” he ordered then. On the back wall of the office was an old lithograph of Custer’s Last Stand. Behind it was a large wall safe. And in that wall safe were the missing furs. “You got nothing on me!” McCasslan howled. “The furs are still on the premises. They ain’t been stolen, just put here by mistake— Hey! What you doing with them?” Ryan grinned, a dancing reckless glint in his gray eyes as he grasped armfuls of fur.

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And Ryan said, ‘‘I’m stealin’ ‘em, pal. Stealin’ ‘em!”

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WO hours later, Ryan called McCasslan on the phone. “Listen, pal,” Ryan said. “Those stolen furs I took are in a trunk, down at the railroad station. They’ve been checked through to Chicago, on a ticket that has the name Loren McCasslan signed to it. Get the picture? It looks like you stole those furs and planned to lam to Chicago with them. That’s how us cops’ll figure it.” At the other end of the wire was a long silence. Wearily, then, came, “Okay, what’s your price?” “You withdraw charges against me,” Ryan answered. “You arrange to pay young Mike and Tiny Carney the sum of $100 a month for ten years. A trust fund. Then I’ll return these furs to you, and you can explain to the law that the furs were not stolen at all, merely moved into another storage room by mistake. Is it a deal?” And McCasslan, licked, said heavily, “It’s a deal.” The boys at the precinct station kidded Ryan when he showed up for duty. “Look who’s here! The big burgleand-yegg man.” “Nuts,” growled the desk sergeant. “Dennis Ryan couldn’t steal candy from a baby.” “From a baby, no,” Ryan agreed, smiling; and added softly, “But for a baby—that’s something else again.”