Too Many Crooks
By Charles R. Tanner
Sergeant Mahoney wiped the perspiration from his brow
and began unbuttoning his coat. The persistence of this
crook was beginning to get on his nerves. He removed
the heavy garment, folded it carefully and placed it
across the back of his chair. He turned to where Hanlon
sat sweltering under the brilliant lights and, resting
his hands on his hips, he began his examination again.
“Now look here, Hanlon,” he started, in a manner
that was almost wheedling in its softness. “We’ve
really got the good on ye, this time. I’ll admit it’s a
clever crook ye are, and ye’ve kept out of the pen for a
long time. But this time, ye’ve laid yerself wide
open. What’s the use of wastin’ our time an’ yer won,
and makin’ us put ye through all this bright lights an’
rubber hose stuff? I kin git ye off light, if ye’ll
come clean. Come on, now be a shport and spill it.”
Hanlon raised his head with a sneer.
“I ast fer me lawyer,” he snarled. “And do I
git him? Naw. Is this a free country? All I do is ast
fer me lawyer. I ain’t talkin’ till I see him.”
Patrolman Tom Miller, who until now had remained
in the background, stepped forward. “Let me talk to him
again for a minute will you, Sarge?” he asked. Sergeant
Mahoney stepped aside readily enough, for it was hot
under those lights, and he suspected that he with all
his fat, suffered almost as much as the prisoner.
Miller turned to Hanlon.
“Look here, Scats,” he started. “You can’t get
out of this so easily, this time. You probably know
that the man at the statich which was held up has
identified you, and that girl, who drove up as you drove
off, had a camera and managed to get a snapshot of you
before you made your getaway. Here’s the picture. Any
jury in the land would convict you on the picture
alone. Why don’t you admit it and clear things up for
us? Then maybe we can make it a little easier for
you.”
The prisoner looked at him and then at the
others with a curiously speculative air. Miller noticed
what appeared to be the usual signs of weakening, and
stepped away, discreetly silent. Hanlon started to
speak, thought better of it, and lapsed into sullen
silence. Under the hot lights, the sweat poured down
his face and dripped off of his nose and chin. His red
hair was shiny with moisture and his little sandy
moustache looked straggly and pale. Miller continued
his silence, and after a minute or two, Hanlon raised
his head.
“I’ve been keepin’ my trap shut ever since I
came in here, because I hate cops and wouldn’t lift a
finger to help ‘em,” he said contemptuously. “But I
didn’t keep still because I had a hand in this business,
whatever it is. I got an alibi an’ a good one. So why
should I let you mugs get away with this stuff, when I
kin git out of it so easy.” He glanced around at them
and the sneer on his lips grew wider. “Call up Father
Chester at St. Mark’s,” he said. “Me and a bunch of the
fellows was down at the gym last night, when that heist
was pulled off.”
Mahoney started forward, his face reddening with
rage. “What!” he roared. “D’you think ye’re goin’ to
drag Father Chester into this? Why, you cheap crook…”
His voice trailed off in silence as he realized the
absurdity of his outburst. Hanlon sneered openly and go
up out of the chair, and none of the police made any
effort to stop him.
“Why don’t you call him up and see?” Hanlon
snapped. “You know Father Chester wouldn’t lie. If he
says I was with him last night, I was with him, that’s
all.”
“If you’re tryin’ to sting me, jist to git a
rest, I’ll hose ye black an’ blue, ye scut,” warned
Mahoney, grimly. “Sit him back under those lights,
boys, an’ see that he stays sittin’ till I call up the
father.”
He slipped on his coat and left the room. For
several minutes silence reigned in the room. Hanlon
stared at the officers arrogantly, his good eye snapping
at them and his glass one staring unconcernedly in
another direction. Presently Mahoney came back, mopping
his brow with a big blue bandana.
“It’s true, be the saints,” he murmured.
“Father Chester says he was there all evening, and at
least a dozen people saw him!” He held up the snapshot
and groaned, “But if he was at Father Chester’s
all evenin’, who in the divvle is this? He whirled on
the now nonchalant Hanlon. “Have ye got a twin brother,
ye omadhaun?”
Hanlon was now absolutely the master of the
situation.
Would I tell you if I had, you cheap flattie?”
he sneered. “You’ll have to get me into court before I
answer any more of your fool questions. I think you’ve
done enough for one trial, Mahoney. Better let me send
for my lawyer.”
“It’s too late in the evenin’,” said Mahoney,
grasping at the first excuse that came into his mind.
“Ye kin see hyer lawyer in the marnin’. Meanwhile,
we’ll keep ye here. Ye’re booked on - - on suspicion.
He waved an angry hand, and one of the officers
led him back to the cells. Mahoney and Miller and a
couple of the other sauntered out to the front office.
Several of them renewed the game of rum that they had
left; others lounged at the window or picked up
magazines. Mahoney too his seat at his desk and was no
sooner seated than the phone rang. He snapped it up and
barked into it.
“Sixteenth district. Yes, this is the police.
What’s that, Ma’am? What - - killed? How? Yes - -
murder, be the saints! Yes, I’ll send a man over right
away.”
As he spoke the word “murder”, the other
officers had leaped to their feet, and Miller had swung
around from his position at the window. Mahoney
beckoned to him.
“Look, Tom,” he blurted out. “Now there’s been
a murder up on Lacey Street! When trouble comes, it
comes in bunches. That was a girl, and I think she’s
almost nuts. Says some man brought her old man home,
dead. Get up there, quick. Here’s the address, the
name’s Fielding.”
Tim Miller gasped. He knew the Fieldings,
slightly. If he wasn’t mistaken, the old man of whom
Mahoney spoke was none other than Louis Gregg Fielding,
the scientist, whose researches into electronics and
radio theory were the pride of the city. Miller climbed
into his coat and was out of the door, before you could
say, Jack Robinson.”
At the house on Lacey Street, he was admitted by
a well-nigh hysterical young girl who showed him into an
old-fashioned parlor and then relapsed into a spasm of
weeping. He spent several moments trying to calm her
before she could speak clearly enough to tell him that
the body of her father was on a bed in a room upstairs.
Miller went up and examined the man; he was dead all
right, and had evidently been shot some time before, for
he lay rigidly on the bed, his eyes shut as if sleeping,
and a dark, crimson spot read like a halo behind his
head.
An inspection showed that death had occurred
from a shot at the base of the brain. There were powder
burns on the hair, as if the murderer had placed the gun
right against the man’s head when he fired. Miller
examined everything carefully, made several notes in his
notebook and then went downstairs and called the
homicide bureau and the coroner. He went back into the
parlor and found the girl still weeping on the couch.
“Miss - - Fielding,” he began, hesitantly. I’d
like to ask you a few questions, if I may. After all,
you know, the most important thing, just at present, is
to find your father’s murderer, and bring him to
justice. I believe the sergeant said someone brought
your father home, dead?”
She nodded and wiped her eyes - - made a brave
attempt to stifle her sobs. Miller took out his
notebook.
“Miss Fielding, I don’t know whether you
remember me or not, but you and I were in a couple of
classes together, in high school. I’m Tom Miller.”
She nodded and wiped her nose.
“I remember you,” she said, with a faint quaver
still in her voice. “But it hardly seemed the time or
place to start reminiscing about high school days.”
Miller held up a protesting hand.
“I only mentioned it because I thought it might
make the questioning easier,” he objected. He sat down
beside her and took a pencil out of his pocket. “Now,
Miss Fielding, when did you see your father alive
last?”
“About seven-thirty, last night. He told me he
was going down to his laboratory, and wouldn’t be back
until late.”
“And he didn’t come back last night at all?”
“No, but that wasn’t very unusual. He often
stayed at the laboratory, especially if he was working
no something interesting and worked late.”
“But he didn’t come back this morning?”
“No, he didn’t, and I began to worry when he
didn’t even call me.”
“Well, what did you do then?”
“I didn’t do anything. Father has always been
perfectly able to care for himself, and, although I
worried today, as a woman will, I didn’t really feel
that anything serious and happened to him.”
“Well, when did the - - when did this man arrive
with the body, and how did it happen that you didn’t
hold him?”
“It was about four o’clock, this evening. A
taxi stopped outside, and a man came to the door and
asked if Fieldings lived her, and when I said ‘yes’, he
said that he had my father in the taxi. I got
frightened, but he said not to worry, that my father had
been celebrating something, and had merely had a little
too much to drink.”
“Was your father a hard drinker?”
“I should say not!” Her eyes sparkled
indignantly. “I had never seen my father in such a
condition before. Dad did take a drink now and
then, but never to excess.”
“Well, what did you think, then, when he showed
you your father in that condition?”
“I didn’t know what to think, but of course, I
believed the man. I suppose I had a sort of vague
feeling that father had made an important discovery and
had gone out and celebrated a little too thoroughly.
But the idea that father might be - - might be dead, or
dying, never entered my head - -” she stopped,
perilously close to tears again. After a moment she
went on: “The man was very pleasant, in crude way. He
offered to take father up to his room; and he did, and
laid him on the bed, just as his is now.”
“And all this time, you didn’t notice anything
strange at all?”
“Everything was strange!” she flashed. “But it
seemed that everything was accounted for by the man’s
tale. I saw that father seemed to be resting all right,
and then I went downstairs again, and paid the man, and
he went away. I got supper and after about an hour I
went up to see how father was - - and - - there was all
that blood on the pillow.”
This time her feelings got the best of her and
she burst into a new spasm of weeping. After a while,
her sobs ceased and Fielding was able to renew his
questions.
“There’s one thing most important, Miss
Fielding,” he said. “Can you describe this taxi driver
that brought your father here?”
“Of course,” she replied. “He’s not hard to
describe. He was tall - - about six feet, I would say.
And he was red-haired and had a little sandy moustache.
And one of his eyes was crossed, or something. It gave
him an appearance of looking two ways at once.
Fielding started up with an exclamation. He
started to make a note in his book, changed his mind and
dived into his pocket, coming out with the snapshot
which the girl at the filling station had made of the
robber, the night before.
He showed it to Miss Fielding, and she
identified it at once as the man who had brought her
father home. A minute later, Miller was on the phone
and talking to Mahoney.
“Where’s Hanlon?” he blurted out, the minute he
heard the sergeant’s voice.
“He’s right here, where he ought to be of
course,” came back the answer.
“Has he been there all the time?”
“He has that. What the divvle’s the matter with
ye, Miller?”
“What time did they bring him in, this
morning?”
“Ten o’clock. And he’s been right here, ever
since we pinched ‘im. What’s got into ye, Miller?”
“Holy cow! Hold him there, Sarge. There’s
something screwy going on here. This girl up here - -
Miss Fielding - - just identified him as the fellow that
brought her father’s dead body back here, about four
o’clock. I’ll be right down, Sarge. Hold that guy.”
As he hung up the phone, he heard the doorbell
ringing, and, motioning Miss Fielding to remain seated,
he went to the door and let in the men from central
office. He hastily informed them of why he had learned
of the crime, turned over the notes he had made, showed
them the body, and then left. He drove as fast as he
could back to the district headquarters and rushed into
the office quite breathless from excitement.
“Mahoney!” he cried. “Is Hanlon still here?
Are you sure? There’s something screwy going on here,
as sure as the Lord made little apples. That girl
identified him, positively, as the man who brought her
dead father’s body home.”
“He was rushing to the group of cells in the
rear of the building as he spoke. Mahoney jumped from
his seat behind the desk and hurried after him. They
reached the cell Hanlon had been incarcerated and, of
course, Hanlon was there, sitting indolently on his
cot. He was dozing, apparently, but Miller’s eyes were
keen enough to see that he was watching them sharply
from beneath lowered lashers. Miller seized him by a
shoulder and jerked him roughly to his feet.
“All right, Hanlon!” he barked harshly. “It’s
time to come clean - - or else! We haven’t got time to
fiddle with you anymore.” He slammed the crook back on
the cot, snarling as he did so, “Answer me now, and
answer me straight, if you know what’s good for you.
Have you got a twin brother that looks like you? Have
you got a brother that was born with red hair and a
glass eye - -”
He stopped suddenly as he realized the absurdity
of what he was saying. There was something more than
mere resemblance to the man who had brought Phyllis
Fielding’s father back to his home. It could have been
possible that Hanlon had a twin brother who looked just
like him, but what were the chances that that brother
would also have a glass eye? He stood baffled for a
moment, and then he turned and walked out of the cell.
Behind him, he heard Hanlon give a snarling
horse-laugh.
Out in the office, he turned to Mahoney.
“There’s something screwy going on, Sarge.”
he insisted. “This Fielding girl described Hanlon to a
“T”. She even identified him as the same guy as the one
in the snapshot. There’s no doubt it was either him or
his double that brought old man Fielding home.”
He stood in thought for a minute, and then spoke
again.
“Look, Mahoney, I go off duty in about fifteen
minutes. How about releasing Hanlon and letting me tail
him? You’re going to have to let him go before long,
anyhow. Maybe I can learn something. What do you
say?”
Mahoney shook his head resignedly.
“If you want to work yer own time, Tom, it’s O.K. with
me. This mix-up has got me about nuts, and I guess I
can’t be holdin’ Hanlon much longer. I’ll do it, Tom,
but, fer Pat’s sake, take care of yerself. I wouldn’t
want to lose ye, me boy, “and something tells me this
business is pretty dangerous."
Miller nodded absently at Mahoney’s warning and
went back to the locker room to change into his
civvies. By the time he returned, Mahoney had Hanlon at
his desk, ready to turn him loose. Miller remained out
in the hall, out of Hanlon’s sight, until the latter
left the building; then he, too, left, and turned down
the street in the direction opposite to the one Hanlon
had taken. He walked a few dozen paces, crossed the
street and climbed into a taxi. He ordered the driver
to drive a few blocks up the street and turn a corner.
There he got out and ducked into a corner cigar store,
where he casually bought a pack of cigarettes.
All this time, his eyes had never left Hanlon,
who was sauntering nonchalantly up the street. Hanlon
passed the store where he was hiding, and Miller noticed
him turn once or twice, cautiously, to see if he was
being shadowed. By the time Hanlon had walked a block
past the cigar store, Miller decided that it was safe to
come out and follow him. He kept to his own side of the
street, though, and allowed the crock plenty of
distance.
For ten minutes he followed the redheaded
mystery, and at last had the satisfaction of seeing him
turn into a house on residential Kasson Street. There
was a cigar store on the corner of the street, too, and
Miller ducked in, and, after showing his badge, took up
a station in one corner of the store, where he could
watch the entrance of the house.
He was there for over an hour before anything
happened. He had just decided that nothing was going to
happen, anymore that night, when a machine drove up in
front of the house. The horn blew, and in a moment the
door opened and three figures stepped out and made their
way to the car.
One of them, he saw at once, was Hanlon.
Another - - Miller gulped and started again - - the
other was almost certainly “Bug” Becker, the man who
held the ice of this town in his covetous grasp; the man
whom even the police might well hesitate to antagonize;
whose grip on politics and politicians had only recently
begun to be felt.
The third man, who walked between the two, and
who seemed to be partially supported by them, was a
little fellow, muffled in a long coat and a hat that was
too big for him. The intention obviously was to keep
the little man from being seen, and it served the
purpose admirably. Miller couldn’t even make out the
nose of the man. Hanlon and Becker, if Becker it was,
hurried the third man into the machine, and it started
up and drove away.
Miller dashed out and looked about. It was
rapidly getting dark, and in the dusk, any cruising
taxicabs that might have been about managed to keep
themselves invisible. He gave up the idea of following
the machine, and turned his attention to the house
again.
He strolled down the street past it; he took a
walk around the block and studied it from the rear,
between two houses. It was dark, back and front, and
though night came on as he walked and it grew quite
dark, no lights were turned on.
For a little while, Miller was uncertain; then
he shrugged and made his decision. He had no legal
right to enter this house, but he was morally justified
if he could learn something in there. He went around to
the back; tried the rear door and windows. They were
all locked, but then he noticed the basement windows,
and, sure enough, one of them was open.
In less time that it takes to tell about it, he
was in. He reached into his hip pocket and got out his
flashlight, and got the surprise of his life as he
flashed it about the cement covered floor. He had
expected the usual furnishings of a basement; he had
suspected, perhaps, the booty of robberies and the tools
of a criminal’s trade. But the entire basement was
filled with complicated apparatus, mostly such apparatus
as is used in radio and television experimentation.
The stuff had been assembled hurriedly, he
noticed after he had studied it for a while. It
appeared to have been brought in and set up, piece by
piece, and then wired together in a most amateurish
style. There were several great glass cylinders with
peculiar metal tops, and a number of intricate machines
that Miller couldn’t understand at all, but which seemed
to be a part of the hook-up.
He thought of Fielding, the murdered man.
Hadn’t he been an experimenter in radio, - - in some
advanced form of radio? Didn’t this tie in with the
murder of Fielding, somehow? He continued to search
around the room, but he found noting that definitely
hooked up this place with the murder or with the mystery
of Hanlon.
He found the steps and went up to the third
floor. He opened the basement door and found himself in
the kitchen. Nothing seemed odd or out of place here.
There were a pile of dirty dishes in the sink and
several empty cans on the drain board. That seemed to
indicate that the inhabitants of the house were strictly
masculine.
He went into the dining room, saw nothing there
to interest him, and turned toward the living room. The
double doors between the living room and the dining room
were closed and it took both hands to open them. The
doors stuck and he pushed them violently. They flew
open and as they did so, a voice from the living room
said calmly: “You make a fine target, silhouetted
against those back windows, nosey.”
Miller gave a yelp of dismay and started back.
A grim cry of “Hold it!” steadied him and he relaxed,
his hands half raised. In the dimness, he could just
make cut a corm and the dull gleam of an automatic. The
man got up from where he sat and moved toward a light
switch: his aim with the pistol never wavering. The
light snapped on once more Miller couldn’t help an
involuntary cry, though this time it was not so much
from dismay as from amazement.
The man who held the gun was “Bugs” Becker, whom
Miller could have sworn had went out with Hanlon and the
muffled little man, half an hour before!
“You- - you- - ,” he started to stammer,
controlled himself by an effort, and said, more calmly,
“I thought I saw you leave here, a while ago, Bugs.”
Becker smiled. He advanced on Miller swiftly,
patted his pockets dexterously and drew out Miler’s own
weapon. He tossed it on the table, and stepped back
again, still keeping his own pistol trained on Miller’s
middle.
“Maybe you did,” he said, quietly. “And maybe
you didn’t. Maybe I came back, unexpected like. And
maybe I’m just another fellow. It’s conffoosin’, but
amoosin’, isn’t it?”
He laughed, then his face grew grimmer.
“I don’t know what you want here, fly-cop,” he
said, harshly. “But you’ve butted in at a damn poor
time. And it’s going to be a damn’ sight harder to get
out than it was to get in. Get upstairs. Come on,
now, get up!”
At the point of his gun, he drove Miller up the
stairs and into a room.
“Make yourself at home here, dick,” he said with
a snarl. “You’re going to be here for a while. I don’t
know what nosey lug sent you here, but I’ll get his
badge for it, as sure as I’m a foot high. And as for
you- - I don’t think your chances of leaving here are
any too good.”
He turned without further word and left the
room. Miller heard the key click in the lock and
immediately dashed to the door and tried it. It was
locked, all right. He snapped the ceiling light on, and
looked around him. There was another door on the
opposite side of the room. It was probably a closet,
but Miller left nothing to chance. If it was an exit,
he wanted to get out before Becker managed to get around
to it and locked it.
The door was unlocked. He threw it open and
started back, prepared for any emergency, or so he
thought. He was little prepared for what actually took
place, however. For the door did enter on a closet, and
a man was standing there in that closet, a man who began
to topple even as Miller looked at him; a man who fell
like a log as soon as the door was open, who tumbled at
Miller’s feet and lay there, stiff and stark.
Redheaded mustached, tall; with a glass eye that
now stared no colder than the one that had been living,
at Miller’s feet was the cold, still body of “Scats”
Hanlon!
For a moment, Miller stood frozen with amazement
and the shock of horror. He had been so positive that
Hanlon and Becker had both left the house that finding
them both here almost unsettled him. After a minute or
two, though, the rational explanation came to him and he
snorted with contempt at his fear. Obviously, Hanlon
and Becker had returned while he was down in the cellar,
or while he was getting in the cellar window. They had
been so quiet that he hadn’t heard them - -
The weakness of his explanation forced itself upon him.
This body had been dead for hours. The man was stiff as
a board. If that man had led the muffled little fellow
out to the auto had been Hanlon, this was certainly
somebody else.
He remembered trouble about the two Hanlons and
smiled suddenly. Things seemed to be clearing up a
bit. It began to look as if there were two
Hanlons. One of them had evidently been the robber that
had held up the filling station and had brought the dead
body of Fielding back to his home. The other had been
the one whom Father Chester had seen and who had been
arrested.
And they had quarreled or something and now one
of them was dead.
So that there were two Hanlons, but more
than likely not tow Beckers. Becker was probably the
one who had come back while he was getting in the
window. He sighed. The explanation didn’t satisfy him,
somehow, but it was the best he could make, with the
facts at his disposal.
Having worked out a theory that halfway
satisfied him, he turned his mind to other things.
First and foremost was the problem of getting out of
this room. The door of course was locked. The window -
- a glance showed him that if he was to get out at all,
it would have to be by the window; and he weighed the
possibility over carefully.
Below the window was a drop of about fifteen
feet. Not too much for a drop, but he would drop into a
clump of bushed and things and without a doubt would
make enough noise to attract Becker’s attention. And he
did not doubt that the latter would shoot, if he saw him
escaping.
Below the window was a small ledge about two
inches wide. If he could hold onto something, that
ledge would offer a foothold and he might be able to
make it to the next window. That window opened on
another room, and it might be possible to get downstairs
from there.
He opened the window cautiously and stepped out
on the ledge. The upper part of the house was stained
shingle and he was able to dig his fingers into the
bottoms of the shingles and make a slow progress toward
the other window. Step by step he advanced, and, at
last, after a seemingly endless period of time, he
reached it, and raised it (Thank God, it wasn’t locked),
and a moment later, he was in the room.
Across the room he sped on tip-toe; he tried the
door softly and sighed an immense sigh of relief as it
yielded to his touch. He turned back into the room and
spent a minute glancing around to see if he could find
anything of importance before he left.
The place was a bedroom. There was a bed that
had been slept in and not remade; there was a desk and a
table by the bed with a number of books on it. More out
of curiosity than anything else, Miller glanced at the
books and was at once glad that he had done so. They
were all technical works and one of them was “The Next
Step After Television” by Louis Gregg Fielding.
Miller gave a grunt of interest and reached for
the book. Was there something here that might tie in
with the murder of the scientist? He opened the book
and noted with interest that Fielding’s own name was
inscribed on the bookplate on the fly-leaf. Either
Fielding had brought this book here, or he had presented
it to someone connected with this place.
Miller placed the book in his pocket and started
for the door. He had almost reached it when he heard a
car draw up, outside. He tiptoed to the window and saw
the car stopped there, and noticed with interest that it
was the same car that had driven away, earlier in the
evening. Three figures were emerging from it. The
driver started to hand out a number of bundles, and soon
the other two were loaded down. They turned and started
for the door of the house. They emerged from the shade
of the surrounding trees, and for a moment, the light
from a street lamp shown full upon them.
It was “Bugs” Becker, “Scats” Hanlon, and the
little man in the big coat. The same three who had left
a couple of hours before!
Again Miller felt that wave of perplexity sweep
over him. He was willing to grant that there were two
Hanlons. That was not beyond the bounds of possibility,
and it seemed impossible to avoid that conclusion. But
he was certain that Becker had not left the house after
locking him in the next room. Yet, here he was, driving
up to the house with the living Hanlon and the little
man.
He ran swiftly back to the door, opening it and
listening intently to hear what went on, downstairs. He
heard the doorbell ring, and then heard footsteps of
someone going to the door. He felt the hair on his back
begin to rise as he pondered just who it was that was
answering the bell. The incredible picture of a “Bugs”
Becker going to the door to let another “Bugs” Becker in
came into his mind, and he snorted it silently at the
absurdity of it.
He heard the door open and hear Becker’s voice
say, “Well, did you get ‘em?” Then he heard the same
voice again, apparently answering the question. “I’ll
say we did,” came the answer. “We’ll be all set now,
for several weeks.”
“There was a dick here while you were gone,” the
voice of Becker went on. “He started to search the
house and I got him when he came into the living room.
He’s upstairs now. We’re going to have to rub him
out.”
Hanlon’s voice spoke up.
“Where is he? In the front room? Gosh, bugs,
that’s where I stuck the body of - -”
“Okay,” snarled Becker. “So if he finds the
body, what? More than likely, it’ll scare him to death,
and save us a job.”
“Maybe I better go upstairs and sort of clean
things up,” came Hanlon’s voice, suggestively.
“Not yet,” Becker’s voice came from the
kitchen. “We go to get this stuff downstairs and see if
it’s going to work. You can clean up, up there, after
that. Come on, now.”
Miller stepped out into the hall and tiptoed his
way to the stairs. He heard the men going down the
basement stairs, and after a moment, heard a low buzz of
conversation from far below. He made his way cautiously
down the steps and into the hall. He opened the door,
stepped out on the porch, and closed the door carefully
behind him. In a minute he was off the porch and around
in the back of the house, where the basement window by
which he had entered earlier in the evening was still
slightly ajar.
By lying on his belly, he could look in and see
everything that was going on, in the basement. He was
halfway prepared to see something strange, but certainly
not for anything so strange as what he did see.
For there were four men in the cellar, and two
of them were “Bugs” Becker! Hanlon sat on a bench on
one side of the room and dangled a pistol on one
finger. The two Beckers were working over some of the
complicated radio apparatus, and apparently were taking
orders or instructions from the little man whom Miller
had seen entering with them. The little man was no
longer muffled up in hat and overcoat, and Miller could
see him quite plainly.
It was Louis Gregg Fielding, the scientist,
whose dead body Miller had seen, in his house, only a
few hours before!
Patrolman Tom Miller has always maintained
stoutly that he never fainted in his life; but if he
didn’t faint then, it was the next thing to it. His
head buzzed and swam, dizzily, and for a little while he
had no conception of what was going on about him. When
he could control himself again, he stood up, groggily,
for a minute, breathing deeply and trying to recover his
dazed faculties. Then he remembered what was going on
and dropped eagerly to his stomach again and put his eye
to the crack under the basement window.
Evidently the work on the machine was
finished. The two Beckers were standing talking to
Fielding (or to Fielding’s ghost), and Hanlon was
studying a group of dials and switches on a control
board at one side of the room. One of the Beckers
turned to Hanlon and said, “Sure you understand all
that, Scats?”
Hanlon nodded and repeated something that had
evidently been taught, something about throwing this
dial and that switch and so forth. Fielding nodded and
the two Beckers turned to the tall glass cylinders; one
going to one of them, the other to the other. They
turned a knob of some sort, the cylinders opened into
halves and a Becker stepped into each one.
And then, just as Miller began to feel that all
this was most important and that he was about to solve
the mystery, a voice said, “All right, wise guy. I
guess you’ve seen enough, now. Up on yer toes an’ start
answerin’ questions.”
Miller leaped up and whirled on the speaker.
The stranger jumped back, and Miller saw a gun in his
hand. He stopped dead and slowly raised his hands. The
stranger laughed shortly and stepped forward again, and
as he did so, a sliver of light, trickling through the
trees from the front of the house, fell on his face.
Miller felt a sagging sense of disbelief, of
refusal to face facts sweep over him. For the man who
held the gun on him was another “Scats” Hanlon!
Hanlon curtly ordered Miller to move. He led
him around to the back of the house and kicked at the
door. Presently a voice called out, he answered and the
door opened. One of the Beckers let them in, and
started with surprise as he saw Miller.
“I thought I locked you in, upstairs, a while
ago,” he snapped.
Miller shrugged and made no attempt to explain.
Becker turned to Hanlon and ordered, “Get him
downstairs, Scats. I guess we’ll have to rub him out,
but I ain’t got time now. I got the old nut putting me
together again.”
He led them down the steps that led from the
kitchen to the basement, and presently Miller found
himself once again in the room that held the amazing
mess of machinery. If he was dazed before, he was
almost speechless now, for here were two Hanlons and two
Beckers, as well as a living Fielding, who should have
been, by all the laws of nature, still lying dead in his
home, several miles away.
The Hanlon who held the gun on him gave a curt
order to him to sit down. Becker (the one who had
admitted them) spoke to Fielding. “Let’s get on with
this now,” he said; and once again the two Beckers took
their places in the glass cylinders. The other Hanlon
began turning the dials on the control board, and
Fielding began to work a number of switches and levers
on the table.
Miller, at a complete loss as to what was going
on, had his eyes on one of the Beckers, when a sharp
whine arose suddenly from one part of the apparatus.
Before his very eyes, the Becker in the glass cylinder
disappeared - - disappeared as thoroughly as if he had
been but a puff of smoke in a gust of wind. He glanced
at the other cylinder - - that Becker, too, was gone!
Then he heard a creaking sound from the third
cylinder, on the opposite side of the room - - and the
third cylinder was opening, and a single Becker was
stepping out from it!
“I feel kind of funny,” he said, dazedly. “My
mind seems all mixed up, somehow.”
Fielding turned toward him and spoke, for the
first time.
“Of course it does,” he said,. “You have two
memory tracks to contend with. You’ll be all right in a
moment or so.”
Becker looked at him and gave a snarl.
“I’d better,” he said. “If this bothered me, it
would be just too bad for you, little man.”
He turned to the two Hanlons. “Better lock
these two guys up,” he commanded. “And lock ‘em up
where they can’t get out. That dick is a little too
smart. Better put ‘em in the bathroom.”
One of the Hanlons motioned them out of the
basement with a wave of his pistol. The other muttered,
“Upstairs, bums.” Miller and Fielding started up the
stairs, walked through the hall and up to the second
floor. The Hanlons followed, their guns ready to blaze
at any second. Miller made no attempt to oppose them,
for it was evident that they were going to lock him up
with Fielding; and he felt that there was noting that he
needed so much, right at that moment, as a long talk
with Fielding, alone.
The bathroom was not a large one, but it was big
enough for tow. As soon as they were locked in and
Miller had made sure that he had heard the footsteps of
the Hanlons going down the hallway, he turned to
Fielding and snapped, “All right, now, what’s this all
about? If there’s anyone who knows the answer to this
mix-up, it’s you. Come on, now. Spill it.”
Fielding looked at him in a disgusted sort of
way, started to speak, hesitated and finally did say,
“Officer, I’ve been kidnapped, and in the power of those
two crooks, for the last twenty-four hours. If they
succeed in accomplishing what they’ve set out to do,
there’ll be one of the dog-gonedest crime waves in
history in this city in another day or so. This is the
first chance I’ve had to plan any kind of escape, and
you’re the first person I’ve seen who might become an
ally. And you want me to waste time explaining. Please
don’t bother about that, now. Try and think of some way
to get us out of here. I don’t think I’m going to be
necessary to those thugs much longer.”
Miller shook his head, dazedly.
“You’d better give me some sort of an inkling as
to what this is all about,” he warned. “I’m about nuts
with the things I’ve seen tonight. I don’t know whether
I’m going or coming. What’s all this about there being
two Hanlons and two Beckers? Why did I see you dead,
with a bullet in your skull, this afternoon, and see you
here now, without a scratch? This business is driving
me nutty. You’d better give me a slant on what is
what, if you want me to be worth anything to you.”
Fielding nodded a reluctant assent, and sat
himself down on the only seat available.
“I suppose you would be worth more as an ally,
if you know what this is all about,” he admitted. “So
I’ll tell you, but I’m going to make it as brief as
possible.”
“Have you ever read anything on the theory of
the possibility of the radio transmission of matter?” he
asked.
Miller shook his head. “You’ve got me there,
Mr. Fielding,” he answered. “Radio and its theory are
all over my head. I’m just a harness bull, you know,
not a G-man.”
Fielding looked disgruntled.
“That makes it a little more difficult to tell.”
He stated. “But perhaps I can simplify it enough.
You’ve heard of the theory that all matter is electrical
in composition, haven’t you?”
“Oh, yeah. We had that, in physics, in high
school.”
“Well, certain investigators have long suspected
that, as matter is primarily electrical, it might be
broken down into its fundamental parts and broadcast
like sound or the picture on a television screen; being
picked up at another station, some distance away and
reassembled. You can imagine what a wonderful thing it
would be, for instance, if oil could be pumped out of
its wells in Texas and broadcast to New York, instead of
having to go by tanker or pipeline.”
Miller’s eyes took on a glistening luster.
“Say,” he said admiringly. “That would be a
honey of an idea, all right. But what has that got to
do with this mix-up?”
“Everything,” Fielding answered. “You see, I’ve
been working on the wireless transmission of matter for
several years; and a month or so ago, I completed my
first successful machine. This man Becker must have
heard of my work from somewhere, and decided that he
could use the instrument in some one of his nefarious
schemes. So he and this Hanlon kidnapped me from my
laboratory yesterday and have held me prisoner ever
since. They stole my apparatus, too, and have forced me
to operate it, for their own vile ends.”
“But I still don’t see what that’s got to do
with this business of the extra Hanlons and Beckers.
And how come I saw your dead body at your house this
afternoon, and now I see you here, alive and unhurt?
And how come - - Oh, hell, I don’t get it!”
Fielding frowned and smiled at the same time.
“I hardly realized,” he said, “just how
impossible this must seem to the average layman. But it
is easily explained. You see, I had quite a bit of
extra experimental apparatus in my laboratory, and when
Becker forced me to explain my instrument to him, I was
nervous and excited, and I made a small mistake that
even all my imagination had never suggested before.
“I was showing him the possibility of
transmitting living matter, for this was the thing he
seemed to be most interested in, and in doing so I had
put a guinea pig in the transmitter and broadcast it.
It was picked up by another receiver I had placed across
the room, but it was also picked up by another receiver
Which in my excitement I had turned on and forgotten to
turn off again. The result, of course, was two guinea
pigs.”
“What?” Miller barked the word out in
utter disbelief. “What did you say, Mr. Fielding? How
could that be? After all, there was only one guinea
pig, you know. I’ll admit that you could broadcast him,
maybe, but making two where only one was before - -
that’s a little too much.”
“Not at all,” Fielding replied; calmly. “If
you’ll just think for a minute, you’ll see that there’s
nothing strange about it at all. Look. If I play an
instrument at a radio station, it can be picked up and
amplified in a thousand homes; and in each case, as loud
or louder than it was at the original station. If I
broadcast a scene on a television apparatus, it, too,
can be picked up and reassembled until the scene can be
seen in a thousand places about the country. And
although it may seem impossible at first, the same thing
can be done with the radio transmission of matter. It
only requires that there be enough energy or enough
matter of the proper elements in the receiver, in order
to build up the secondary forms.”
“Then - - then all these extra Hanlons and
Beckers are - - are - -”
“Are the same ones, broadcast and picked up at
my two stations.”
Miller let out a long, low whistle. He sat for
a full minute letting the idea slowly sink into his
mind. It was a lot to swallow at one bite, and it took
a lot of chewing. Ast last he lifted his head.
“And what about the dead ones?” he asked.
“Well, the first time we tried it with a man,
Becker forced Hanlon to go into the machine. I managed
to have the second receiver slightly out of time, and
one of the Hanlons arrived slightly spoiled. Instead of
a living Hanlon, one of them was dead when he arrived.
The other, however, was all right, and he detected by
ruse. They forced me to do it over again, and the
result was the two living Hanlons. But they were left
with a dead body to get rid of, and they haven’t had
time to dispose of it, yet.”
“But what’s the idea back of it all? What do
they expect to make by it?”
“Fielding grunted a little scornfully at
Miller’s obtuseness.
“I should think it would be perfectly obvious to
a policeman,” He answered. “Think how easy it would be
to establish an alibi, if you could prove that you were
at another place when your - - er - - alter ego was
performing a crime.”
“Holy cow!” Miller cried in amazed realization.
“that’s just what Hanlon did, last night! So that
explains the mystery of the gas station hold-up.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Fielding, drily. “It
also explains that murder of me. They forced me to
enter the machine, duplicated me, and killed my other
self as he emerged from the machine. It was their
intention to make it appear that I was dead, so that
people wouldn’t be looking for me. They intended to
hold me a prisoner until I had told them all I know
about the machine.”
Miller said no more for several minutes. He
sat, trying to digest the various facts that he was now
in possession of, trying to fit the various parts of the
story together and find out just what had really been
happening. At last he rose and said, “Well Fielding, it
looks like our next problem is to get out of here.
Fielding made some sort of an answer, but the
policeman paid little attention to it. He stepped over
and examined the one little window in the room, and
found out that at some time, someone had nailed it
carefully shut. He tried the door, glancing around the
room as he did so, and wondering if there were anything
available which he could use as a tool. He opened the
medicine chest, but it was empty; he looked under the
bathtub and found nothing; he was just about to give up
in disgust when it dawned on him that there was a
bathrobe hanging in a corner behind the door.
He had half-consciously noticed that bathrobe
before, but it had meant nothing to him, then. Now he
hurried over and jerked it from its hook, and tore the
robe from the hanger. It was a wire hanger, and her
couldn’t refrain from giving a little whoop of
satisfaction when he saw that this was so.
Fielding looked at him, a little puzzled. “It
looks just like an ordinary wire hanger to me,” he said,
inanely.
Miller laughed. “Does it?” he asked. “Well, to
me, it looks like a screwdriver. It looks like a
skeleton key, too, and a pretty effective dagger, if
that becomes necessary. Watch.”
He twisted the heavy wire back and forth until
it broke at one end. He twisted it at the other end,
and presently he had a straight piece of wire about
fifteen inches long in his hand. He glanced around the
room, decided that the tile of the floor was the best
place for his operation, and, after a moment of looking
around, began to dig out one of the tiles at the most
promising place.
It took him some ten minutes to dig out the
tile, then, using it as a whetstone, he began to grind
down one end of the wire. Presently he had it ground
down to where it would slip into the slot of a screw.
He moved over to the door, and in a jiffy, he had the
plate removed from the door’s lock.
“Another minute of looking around, and he found
a place by the lock of the window where he could insert
his wire and bend it at right angles. He now had a hook
and, with the door plate removed, he could see what he
was doing as he inserted the hook and began to fish
around the lock.
It took patience to accomplish his object.
Several times he had to stop to grind down the wire
again, and once he had to bend it to a sharper angle.
Minute after minute went by, with Fielding standing over
him and breathing down his neck, and the expectation
over in his mind that at any moment the men below might
decide that it was time to come up and finish what they
had started. At last, he felt the last pin yield; he
bent his wire carefully again, at his end and began to
turn it. He turned to Fielding with a triumphant
gesture and clapped a finger to his lips to keep the old
man from crying out.
Then, slowly and carefully, he turned the knob,
drew the door toward him, and put his head out to look
around. The hall was empty. He stepped out, motioning
Fielding to follow him. He glanced around in the hope
of finding something that he could use as a weapon, but
the hall was as sparse of furnishings as second floor
halls usually are, so he beckoned again for Fielding to
stay close to him, and started down the stairs.
Below in the basement, he heard someone speak.
He froze, instantly; straining his ears to hear if the
sounds indicated the approach of the speaker. For a
full minute, the two stood there, but though they could
hear the answer, though they heard the conversation
continue, it soon became plain that the speakers were
not likely to come upstairs, for a while, anyhow.
They continued their way down to the first
floor. They might have fled out of the front door,
then;’ but Miller had gotten too involved in this thing
to even think of fleeing feebly at that moment. The
idea simply never entered his head. He turned and
started for the rear of the house, intent on finding out
what was going on down in the basement, now. But he had
little more than reached the door of the kitchen when he
heard the sounds of footsteps ascending the basement
stairs.
He looked around a little wildly, spied a
closet, and flung the door open, pushing Fielding into
it and darting in, himself, not a moment too soon. Even
as he closed the door, he heard the door of the basement
open.
They stood, hardly daring to breathe, for a
while; then Miller noticed that a beam of light was
coming in the key hole. He dropped to his knees and
peered out into the hall. He could hear the footsteps
of the approaching thug, but as yet he could not see
anything save the balk wall opposite the keyhole.
Fielding suddenly pt a hand on his shoulder and
let it run down his are until it reached his hand.
“Take this,” the little scientist whispered, in tones
that were barely distinguishable. “I found it on the
floor, here.”
He thrust something into Miller’s hand and the
patrolman almost chuckled with satisfaction. The object
Fielding had handed him was - - of all things - - an
Indian club. And just then the light from the keyhole
was wiped out as the dark form of the man outside
stepped in front of it.
Miller waited until the light appeared again,
counted five, to give the man a chance to pass, turned
the knob quietly and leaped suddenly into the hall. The
Indian club rose and fell, there was a soft “thunk”, and
Miller’s arms darted out to catch the thug and lower him
gently to the floor.
He frisked him at once and came up triumphantly
with an automatic, just as Fielding emerged from the
closet with a delighted grin on his face. Miller gave a
warning “shush” before he could say anything, showed him
the gun and motioned to the basement steps. Without so
much as a backward glance at the supine figure of the
crook (it was one of the Hanlons), they started through
the kitchen to the entrance to the basement.
He went up to the door, found it slightly ajar,
and slowly pushed his ear next to it where he could hear
the slow buzz of conversation as Becker talked to the
remaining Hanlon. By stooping low he could see further
into the basement and make out the forms of the two,
evidently starting to dismantle the machines. They were
busy, and Miller saw a ray of hope that he might be able
to get down into the basement without either of the
crooks noticing him. He took one step down, then
another - - and another - -
From the kitchen came a cry. It was Hanlon’s
voice, and Miller cursed as he realized that the blow he
had struck with the Indian club hand only dazed, and not
rendered completely unconscious that crook. The cry was
“The dick’s out Bugs!” Get him he’s on the steps!”
He saw Becker whirl, saw the other Hanlon
reached for his gun, and fired blindly with his own
weapon. Hanlon winced, hesitated a second as if to see
if he was injured, and in that second, Miller had a
chance to aim more carefully. He fired, and saw Hanlon
start back, and then begin to topple.
He knew that his second shot had taken effect,
but before he could fire again, or even turn his gun
toward Becker, he was hurled from his feet and went
tumbling down the remaining steps, to land with a crash
at the bottom. The last Hanlon hurled himself on him
from the top of the steps.
He sorted himself dazedly from a complex tangle
of crook, cop, and scientist. He looked up and managed
to grin ruefully at what he saw. Becker standing over
him with two guns, his own and the one that had fallen
from Miller’s hand as he tumbled down the stairs.
“Get up,” commanded Becker curtly. Miller rose,
straightening his clothes and combing back the hair from
his eyes with his fingers.
“You got to give me credit for trying,” he said
grimly. “If that hoodlum’s skull wasn’t so thick…”
“Give you credit?” Becker’s voice was menacing,
with a strange air of uncertainty in it. “I owe you
more than credit, copper. And I think I’ll pay you off,
right now.”
He raised one of the guns as he spoke, and that
would probably been the end of Miller and of this story,
had not the remaining Hanlon suddenly given a groan and
sunk slowly to the floor. For a moment, even Miller was
at a loss to conceive what had struck him; then it
dawned on him that the blow with the Indian club and the
fall down the stairs had been sufficient to produce
injuries that might account for this sudden loss of
consciousness. Miller, of course, considered it merely
a temporary respite for him, but Becker evidently looked
upon it differently. He had started out the evening
with a number of friends and allies, he suddenly found
himself alone with two enemies. He backed away from
Miller and Fielding, his gun still ready; backed away
until he was halfway across the room.
“Don’t you punks move!” he warned in a voice
that was not without a certain element of panic. “I’m
still boss here, even if there is only me left. Get
over in that corner and hold up your hands.”
Fielding looked at Miller and Miller nodded a
reluctant consent. The basic cowardice of Becker’s
nature had rendered him panicky as soon a she found
himself fighting without allies, and Miller knew that a
panicky man is often far more dangerous than a cool
one. Becker motioned them into the farthest corner of
the room, and then, with his eyes fixed on them and his
gun wavering in his hand, he stood thinking what he
could do.
Presently he snorted a command.
“Fielding,” he said. “Get that rope, over on
the wall, and tie the bull up.”
Miller half expected Fielding to hesitate, but
the little man acted at once. He tied Miller tightly,
avoiding his eyes as he did so. And all the time he was
tying him, Becker’s gun pointed at him. At last Miller
was bound helplessly, hand and foot, and Becker motioned
Fielding over to him.
“Now, listen, you little rat,” Becker said,
viciously. “You’re going to set up this apparatus and
make me into two again. If you do a good job, I’ll
promise you that you’ll get out of this whole and
sound. But if you fumble anything, I’ll shoot you, and
your pal, too, before I leave this place, so help me!
Now get to work and set that stuff up again.”
Fielding bowed his head in apparent resignation,
ashamed, it seemed, to even look at the bound from of
Miller. Sullenly, he began to do as he was told. For
half an hour he worked, and all during that time, Becker
sat fiddling with his pistol and snarling commands to
the scientist to hurry.
At last, the setup was complete. Fielding took
a chair and put it in the transmitting cylinder, set the
machine to work and, a moment later, took a chair from
each of the receiving cylinders. Becker took a look at
each of the chairs, decided that the test was all right,
and stepped to the transmitter.
His eyes gritted steely as he grated harshly
through his teeth: “Remember, now, little man, no
mistakes; or you’ll regret it to your dying day - -
which’ll be damn soon!”
Fielding’s lips were white as he murmured,
“There’ll be no mistakes, Mr. Becker.” He adjusted a
dial on the transmitter, closed the door on the
transmitter, and snapped a switch on each of the
receivers. Becker was still standing in the
transmitter, his gun trained through the glass on
Fielding. The little scientist called, “Are you ready?”
and Miller saw Becker nod. Fielding pulled a lever and
there was a characteristic whine from the machine.
Becker disappeared from the transmitting cylinder and -
-
“Where is he?” Miller asked, after a second or
two.
“I broadcast him!” Fielding answered, grimly.
He attitude of meekness and cowardice had disappeared
completely. He looked about the room as if in search of
something, and then said, casually, “Got a knife in your
pocket?”
“No,” answered Miller, shortly, and turned at
once to the subject that was most interesting to him.
“Where is Becker Fielding? He didn’t appear in either
of the cylinders. Where is he?”
“He couldn’t appear in either of the receivers,”
said Fielding calmly. “I had ‘em turned off.” He
stooped down and began to untie Miller’s arms and legs.
“As far as telling you where he is - - Well, he’s gone
off in all directions, like Paul Revere. It would take
a pretty smart detective to establish a corpus
delicti, now.”
The last rope fell from Miller’s body and he
stood up, stiffly. Fielding tossed the rope aside and
went back to his dials and switches.
“You know, Miller, I think it would be a pretty
good idea to broadcast these two dad bodies of Hanlon,
too. You’re going to have a terrible time of it, if you
try to explain all that’s happened here tonight, and
then prove it. Why don’t you run upstairs and get that
other Hanlon, and we’ll just eliminate it and the one
you shot. Then you can fix up a story without any
mystery.”
Miller thought for a minute, and then nodded and
started for the stairs. The Hanlon who still lay
unconscious on the floor would have to be enough for
this case, he decided. He had been wondering ever since
he got into this mix-up, how he was going to explain
it. With two or three extra Hanlons and Beckers out of
the way, the explanation was going to be a lot
simpler.
He picked up the stiff body of the upstairs
Hanlon and brought it down to the basement. When he got
there, he glanced around in surprise. Both the living
and the dead Hanlon were gone and Fielding was quite
alone.
“Hey!” he ejaculated, protestingly. “What about
the one that was alive?”
Fielding grinned, “What in the world are you
talking about, officer. Are you intimating that there
were any other men down here with me? I think you’d
have a hard time proving it, in a court of law.”
Miller looked at the little man, at first
angrily and then admiringly. “Boy!” he murmured. “I’d
hate to have you get mad at me, with that machine in
your control.”
Fielding winked and said, “That’s what the
Japanese Government is going to think, after I’ve turned
this machine over to Washington.”
THE END