Everyone knows that �Dragnet� stories are taken from actual cases in the files of the Los Angeles Police Department. But because of the famous tag line �The names were changed to protect the innocent,� many people are unaware that the police officers appearing in the stories, with the exceptions of Lieutenant Joe Friday and Sergeant Frank Smith, Captain Peters, and Sergeants Art Haney and Tom Johnson, are real persons. Only the names of suspects, victims, and witnesses are changed.

The only major departure from fact in the typical �Dragnet� story is that Joe Friday and Frank Smith are substituted for the police team that actually handled the case. Obviously this fictional device is necessary to give the series continuity. But it creates an odd situation � the secondary-role officers who appear in the case get a measure of recognition in being identified by name, whereas the officers who enacted the primary roles in real life receive no mention at all. They become, in the story, Friday and Smith.

For dramatic reasons this is unavoidable. (What would a �Dragnet� story be without Joe Friday and Frank Smith?) Nevertheless it has always seemed to me unfair. So, in this foreword I want to give credit to the police officers who actually worked on this case.

This was a long, complicated case covering several years of activity. But for technical reasons the time element in the fictionalized version has been telescoped considerably. Three different teams of police officers handled various phases of the investigation. But in the book Lieutenant Friday and Sergeant Smith duplicate the work of all three teams.

The six officers whose exploits Joe Friday and Frank Smith re-enact in the following story are Sergeants Jack Crowley, Harry Killeby, Robert Perry, and J. P. Brady; Officers Dee Lightner and Stanford (Sam) McCaleb. All six, like Friday and Smith in the story, work the day watch out of Robbery Division.

I am indebted to these officers for the time they took to give me considerable background material about the case, much of which I could not have gotten from a mere study of impersonally written case records.

Grateful acknowledgment for their cooperation in helping me obtain material for this book is also made to Los Angeles Chief of Police W. H. Parker; Chief of Detectives Thad Brown; Captain Stanley Sheldon, Commander of the Public Information Division; Ray Pinker, Technical Director of the Criminalistics Laboratory; and the many other officers who gave of their time. The latter is too long a roster to list. It includes most of the Robbery Division, most of the Homicide Division, and individual officers scattered through a half dozen other divisions. It is only lack of space, not lack of appreciation, that precludes listing all their names.

Finally, and most important, acknowledgment is made to Jack Webb, the creator of �Dragnet.�

It was Monday, December 2nd. It was cool in Los Angeles. We were working the day watch out of Robbery Division. My partner�s Sergeant Frank Smith. The boss is Captain Peters.

My name�s Friday.

In a city of nearly two and a half million there is lots of crime. Sociologists estimate that at least five per cent of the total population is �socially maladjusted,� a textbook way of saying �bad.� Statistically, Los Angeles should have 125,000 of these potential criminals. Adequate policing and efficient prosecution deter a large portion from stepping over the line.

Enough remain unimpressed to keep us busy.

Larceny is the commonest major crime. Burglary is next, then auto theft. None of these are violent crimes, however.

The commonest crime of violence is aggravated assault. In most cases this is an unplanned crime. Two people get in an argument; one reaches for a club.

Robbery is the most common planned crime of violence. Los Angeles averages between eight and nine robberies a day.

There are forty-five men in Robbery Division to cope with this problem. Thirty-two of them are assigned to the day watch. These are divided into ten details, each specializing in certain types of robbery. Frank and I were working the Market and Jewel Robberies Detail.

In some divisions there are periods of rush, then periods of inaction. Homicide, for instance, may have days of quiet, then suddenly be so flooded with work, all time off is canceled. In Robbery it�s different.

It�s always a madhouse.

All day long the Robbery Division squad room buzzes.

The phones jangle constantly. The hot-shot speaker sounds off. Teams rushing out on calls pass other teams bringing in handcuffed suspects. Officers are getting out bulletins, writing reports, discussing the strategy of investigations. It�s about as quiet as a city newsroom on the day of a major disaster.

At 9:00 a.m. Frank and I were sitting across a table from each other. I was completing the write-up of a case we had closed the day before. Frank was reading the daily bulletin. Frank said, �Listen to this, Joe.�

I looked up. �Yeah?�

�Guy tried to knock over a delicatessen last night. Proprietor grappled with him, pushed the gun up in the air. It went off.�

When he paused to grin to himself, I said, �So?�

�Bullet went through the ceiling. The owner�s apartment was upstairs. His brother-in-law had his head in the ice box, fixing himself a snack.�

�Uh-huh.�

�Caught him right in the seat of the pants.�

Frank looked up from the bulletin with a grin of pure enjoyment. He has definite feelings about brothers-in-law. His wife�s brother, Armand, makes his living by sponging on relatives, and Frank is his favorite customer.

I said, �Hurt him bad?�

He glanced back at the item. �Just a flesh wound. Proprietor overpowered the bandit and called the police.�

I went back to my paper work. After a moment Frank said in a reflective voice, �Wonder if he�d of called in if he�d known what had happened upstairs.�

Tom Johnson, on the desk, called out, �Joe!�

I glanced in that direction, then rose and went over to the desk. After looking that way, too, Frank got up and followed.

Three people stood before Tom�s desk. The one in the middle was a man of about forty-five, short and plump, with a round, good-natured face and lips that at first glance seemed to pout. On second glance I saw that they were swollen. The skin around his mouth and across his plump cheeks was reddened, as though an adhesive bandage had been ripped off recently. The man seemed on the verge of collapse from exhaustion.

A young woman stood on either side of him, each in her early twenties. One was a very light, blue-eyed blonde, the other a dark-skinned, dark-eyed brunette. In their individual ways they were both beautiful, the blonde cool and crisp and queenly, the brunette languorously sultry. Though I�d never seen either before, some indefinable quality that seems to surround all professional show people classified them instantly. I�ve never quite been able to put my finger on this quality. Maybe it�s a brightness of manner, or a tendency to perform even offstage, or simply a matter of meticulous grooming. At any rate, I knew they were either movie starlets or TV actresses.

Tom said, �Got a market robbery for you, Joe.� To the man he said, �Lieutenant Friday and Sergeant Smith will take care of you.�

The two girls gave us bright, show-business smiles. The man merely waited tiredly.

I said, �Let�s find a place to sit down,� and led the group to a relatively quiet corner.

When I indicated chairs, the man flopped into his like a dropped sack of grain. The girls sat protectively on either side of him. Frank sat across from them with a pencil poised over a complaint form. I remained standing.

I said, �You got a market robbery to report, sir?�

He gave a tired nod. �My store. Dehelvey�s Supermarket on Sunset.�

�Your name�s Dehelvey?� I asked.

�Yes, sir. James Dehelvey.�

I glanced at Frank long enough to see that he was taking down the information, then looked at the girls.

�Our names aren�t necessary,� the blonde said brightly. �We just brought Mr. Dehelvey in. We don�t even know him.�

I looked from her to the brunette, got another bright smile, and tabled the matter of names for the moment.

�When did this happen?� I asked Dehelvey.

�A little before midnight last night.�

I raised my eyebrows. �You�re open at that time on Sunday?�

�No, no,� he said. �I�m not open at all. They forced me to open the rear door.�

�Maybe you�d better start at the beginning,� I suggested.

�Well,� he said, �Saturday�s my big day, you know. Which is why they planned it for Sunday, I guess. They knew the safe would be loaded.�

I said, �Uh-huh.�

�They must have been checking my movements. Knew I�d be coming out of Planter�s about eleven thirty p.m.�

�Out of what?�

�Planter�s Tavern. Couple of blocks from where I live. Every Sunday night I stop in there about ten thirty. Have a couple of drinks, leave about an hour later.�

�You always keep that same schedule?�

He gave an emphatic nod. �Yes, sir. Believe in regular habits.� He paused, then added, �I�m a bachelor. Got no woman around to upset my schedule.�

The two girls looked at him with amused smiles.

I said, �What happened when you left the tavern, sir?�

A pained expression crossed James Dehelvey�s face. �Two men were waiting at my car. In the parking lot. Planter�s has its own lot, you see.�

�Uh-huh.�

�They stuck guns in my side. Told me to get in the car and drive. I had to do it. Couldn�t go up against two guns.�

I said, �We understand,� and Frank asked, �Can you describe these men?�

�Sure. They weren�t masked or anything. One was a great big fellow. Must have gone two-fifty and stood about six-four. No fat on him, either. Powerful-looking man.�

�What about his face?� I asked.

�Full face. Rather heavy features, but sort of scholarly looking. Talked real educated, too. Used a couple of words I didn�t even know what they meant. Ambulatory, for instance.�

Frank said, �What?�

�That was later,� Dehelvey explained. �When they taped me up. The big fellow said, �Sorry to have to do this, but we can�t have you ambulatory.��

I grunted, then asked, �How about the other man?�

�As little as the big fellow was big. They were like Mutt and Jeff. Only about five and a half feet, and around one hundred thirty pounds. He had a hooked nose and a straight, real thin mouth.�

Frank asked, �How�d he talk?�

�No better than you or me. Not as good even. Used a double negative once.�

�Yeah?� Frank said.

�Said, �There ain�t no rush. We got all night.� To his partner. That was at the store, too.�

I asked, �How old were these men?�

�Around thirty. Both of them. Couple of years either way.�

�Anything else you can tell us about them?�

�Well, they were polite enough. Didn�t push me around any. Except to tape me up. Didn�t talk at all tough. But they were.�

�How do you mean?�

�Showed their true colors just before they left. Politeness didn�t mean a thing.�

I said, �Go on.�

�Told me what would happen if I went to the police.�

�What?�

�Big fellow said he�d come back and kill me.�

9:32 a.m. We continued to question the victim. He rounded out the descriptions of the bandits, including color of hair and type of clothing.

Dehelvey said the two men had forced him to drive to the rear door of his supermarket, unlock it, and open the safe. They had taken more than three thousand dollars from the safe, had ignored a stack of checks. Through some peculiar oversight they had not emptied his wallet, which had contained some hundred and fifty dollars.

The suspects had then bound and gagged their victim with adhesive tape. They had not bothered to shut the rear door when they left. Dehelvey had inched his way out into the alley. He estimated it had taken him more than an hour to make that few feet, and by then he�d been too exhausted to attempt inching the several hundred feet to the street. He�d lain in the alley until nearly 8:00 a.m., when the two girls had driven through it and spotted him.

Frank said, �What�s the make and license number of your car?�

Dehelvey said, �That won�t do you any good.�

�What?� Frank asked.

�It�s still parked behind the store. They must have had their own car stashed near-by.�

That seemed to be all the victim could tell us. I turned to the two girls. I said, �May we have you ladies� names now, please?�

�What for?� the blonde asked. �All we did was pick Mr. Dehelvey up, take him to a doctor, and then bring him here.�

�Like �em anyway,� I said. I added, �You got some reason to conceal them?�

The girls looked at each other. Finally the brunette smiled, said, �Maybe it would be good publicity. Or should we call Max first?�

Frank asked, �Who�s Max?�

�Our agent,� the brunette said. �We never make a move without him. Not since the time we got ourselves arrested for going into a night club in bathing suits.�

James Dehelvey had started to fall asleep in his chair. Rousing himself, he stared at the brunette.

�In bathing suits!� he said.

�We thought it would be a cute publicity stunt. Max didn�t. He�d be furious if we got our names in the paper again without his O.K.�

�You�re actresses?� I asked.

�TV. We were headed for Casting when we saw Mr. Dehelvey.� She glanced at the wall clock. �We�re out of luck today. If there was anything listed for our types, it�s gone by now.�

I said, �Afraid we�ll have to have your names, ma�am. You�re witnesses.�

The blonde said enthusiastically, �Oh, will we have to appear in court?�

�Possibly,� I said. �We can�t guarantee you�ll be called.�

Her face fell. She said to the brunette, �At least we could get our names in the paper. Max couldn�t object. After all, it�s good publicity.�

The brunette said dubiously, �You know how he is when he doesn�t plan it.�

�Sure. But we can tell him the police forced us. Gave us the third degree.�

�You ladies are strictly volunteer witnesses,� Frank said firmly. �Don�t go around saying we forced you to do anything.�

Dehelvey said in a tired voice, �You through with me? Can I go home and get some sleep?�

I said, �Like you to look at some pictures first.� Then I turned back to the girls. �You ladies performed a fine civic duty by aiding this man. Nobody could possibly criticize you for it. Not even your agent. But we do have to have your names.�

The girls looked at each other again. Then the blonde shrugged, looked up at me and said, �I�m Sandra Joyce.�

Frank was writing this down when I asked, �Stage name?�

�Well, yes. You�re not going to put our real names in the paper, are you?�

�We want them for the record.�

The brunette said, �You�re not putting my real name in the paper.�

Sandra Joyce looked at her and giggled. The brunette frowned at her.

Sandra said to me, �It wouldn�t do us any good to have our real names in print. Nobody�d know who we were. Couldn�t the papers just say, �The witnesses gave their names as Sandra Joyce and Evelyn King�? That wouldn�t be exactly a lie.�

Frank wrote down the second name. I said patiently, �Usually the press uses the stage names of actors and actresses. If it was a big story, they might use both. But it will only be a mention.�

Both girls pouted a little at this. After a momentary hesitation the blonde, Sandra, said, �My real name is Janet Wilson.�

Frank cocked an eyebrow at her. I could almost read his mind. I was having the same thought: What was so wrong with the name Janet Wilson that she had to change it?

The brunette said in a low voice, �I�m Myrtle Kaltwasser.�

Frank didn�t cock an eyebrow at her. He just wrote the name down. Then he asked for their addresses and wrote those down, too.

There was nothing more the girls could give us. They offered to wait around until we were through with James Dehelvey and then drive him home, but we told them we�d see that he got home. After a final admonition from the blonde to give their stage names to the press, they left.

The next morning, Tuesday, December 3rd, I arrived at the Police Building early enough to have breakfast in the eighth-floor cafeteria before checking into Robbery Division. I was on my coffee when Frank came in and joined me.

�Sick?� I asked, eyeing the sweet roll and cup of coffee he carried over to the table.

He looked surprised. �Me? Why?�

�You usually have more than that for breakfast.�

Frank gave me a self-conscious grin. �Fay fixed me breakfast. Ham and eggs, fried spuds, toast and jelly. This is just dessert.�

When I smiled very slightly, he said in a defensive tone, �Well, she only fixed three eggs.�

Sergeant Tom Anderson of Homicide Division came over to the table and began to unload his tray.

I said, �Hi, Andy.�

Frank, his mouth full of sweet roll, just nodded.

Andy said, ��Morning, gentlemen. Seen the daily bulletin yet?�

We both shook our heads. Andy sat down, pushed his tray to one side, and spread a paper napkin on his lap. �You boys put out an APB on a pair of market bandits yesterday, didn�t you?�

�Uh-huh,� I said.

�Descriptions match a pair we want.�

I said, �Oh?�

Andy spread jelly on a piece of toast. �Not for homicide. Just assault and battery. Night watch handled it, but LaMonica and I have got the follow-up.�

Frank asked, �What happened?�

�Your big boy � if it�s the same one � put two guys in the hospital. Tavern brawl.�

I said, �What time was this?�

�Around midnight. Place over on Main Street. The report was that this big fellow and a smaller companion � same descriptions as on your APB � came in drunk. The big guy said he could clean anybody in the place. He got no takers. Couple of customers tried to walk out. Suspect pulled a gun, ordered everybody back to the bar. Then he tossed his gun to his pal, who pulled one of his own and held both on the crowd while the big guy methodically beat two men into unconsciousness.�

There was silence. Then Frank said, �Nice way to get kicks.�

�Yeah,� Andy said. �This is a real congenial pair.�

�Any leads?� I asked.

�Got some pretty good descriptions. They were gone, of course, before the police arrived.�

�Stat�s turn anything?�

Andy shrugged. �Report hadn�t come down yet when I checked in. Should be there by the time I get back to Homicide.�

Thursday morning, December 5th, a phone call came for me at Robbery Division.

When I said, �Friday speaking,� a hoarse voice said, �This is Smoky, Lieutenant.�

Smoky Fallon, alias seven other names, was a police informer.

I said, �Yeah?�

Smoky said, �Hear you�re looking for Big Julie Martin.�

�Uh-huh,� I said.

�Well, I can�t tell you where he�s holed up.�

I waited for him to go on, and when he didn�t, said sourly, �Then why are you wasting my time?�

�Thought you might like to know I saw him last night.�

�Where?�

�Pinto�s on Third. Him and a pal.�

�What pal?�

�Little guy,� Smoky said. �Never saw him before.�

�Pinto�s a regular hangout of Big Julie�s?� I asked.

�Naw. He�s got no regular places. He likes to hit all the bars when he�s on the town.�

�You don�t know who his pal was, huh?�

�Tried to find out,� Smoky said. �Asked the barkeep who he was, after they went out. He didn�t know. One thing, though.�

�What�s that?�

�The little guy has quite a nose. Big, and kind of hooked. Guess that�s how he got his nickname.�

I said, �Huh?�

�Big Julie called him �Beak.��

9:02 p.m. Frank, Joe LaMonica, and I met Andy at the place he had designated. We had each come in a separate car, and now we left two cars parked there and doubled up. Frank rode with me in my Ford, LaMonica with Andy.

Andy led the way up Seventh to the west edge of the park, turned left and turned left again at Eighth. Halfway down the block he parked in front of an apartment building. When I pulled in behind him and cut my motor and lights, Andy came back and leaned in the driver�s-side window.

�This doesn�t have to be a fancy stakeout,� he said. �They shouldn�t be expecting anything. We�ll just wait till they walk out, then move in for the arrest.�

�Which apartment is it?� I asked.

�Second-floor right front. With the drawn shades. They must be home, because the lights are on. They�ll be coming out that door.� Andy pointed to the street entrance to the apartment house.

Frank and I glanced that way. Frank said, �The place is rented by some woman?�

�Strife�s girlfriend,� Andy said. �My stoolie didn�t know any more about her, except her first name. Marie.�

I said, �Why don�t we go in and get them instead of waiting out here?�

�Easier this way. My informer says the two guys start out on the town about ten every night. Sometimes alone, sometimes with the woman. Better to catch them in the open than go in and maybe have to break down a door.�

He went back to his own car. Frank and I settled back, lit cigarettes, and waited.

Fifty-five minutes and three cigarettes later, Frank said in a soft voice, �Joe.�

�Yeah?� I said.

�Their lights just went out.�

I leaned over him to peer out his side of the car and saw that, as he said, the windows of the second-floor right front apartment were now dark. I flicked my lights on and off once to alert the other car, got the momentary flash of red taillights in acknowledgment. Both Frank and I tossed our cigarettes away.

The apartment-house street-entrance door opened, and three people stepped out. Even in the darkness it was pretty certain that two of them were our suspects. Their silhouettes against the lighted entranceway showed that one was huge, the other short and slightly built. A woman was between them.

Frank and I slid from the car on either side. After a quick sidewise glance to make sure Andy and LaMonica were following suit, we moved in rapidly.

The four of us had the suspects boxed from both sides before they knew what was happening. The woman�s mouth popped open when she saw our four guns.

�Police officers,� I said. �Throw up your hands.�

The woman was a dyed blonde of about thirty. Her arms shot high overhead instantly. The two men responded more slowly, raising their hands with sullen deliberation, and raising them only to shoulder height.

Big Julie was to the woman�s left, which made him Frank�s and mine. I could see why James Dehelvey, even before he had been frightened out of testifying, had been unable to identify his picture. The features were the same, but the expression was totally different than in the mugg shot. He had a calm, intelligent face. You might have taken him for a banker or college professor. It was hard to imagine him, even drunk, senselessly beating up two complete strangers.

Putting away his gun, Frank moved in to give Big Julie a shakedown while I kept him covered. From the corner of my vision I was conscious that LaMonica was shaking down the other suspect while Andy kept him covered. LaMonica moved faster than Frank. He had captured a .38 revolver from beneath Harry Strite�s arm and was cuffing the suspect�s hands behind him before Frank reached for Big Julie�s armpit.

Frank lifted a .45 automatic from Big Julie�s shoulder holster and stuck it in his pocket. Then he stooped to check for leg weapons.

Julie�s big hands flashed down, grabbed Frank by both shoulders, and hurled him at me.

The sudden move caught us all flat-footed. Andy had put away his gun and was leading Harry Strite to the car. LaMonica was checking the woman�s purse for weapons. Frank�s body, lifted entirely off the ground by the big man�s powerful heave, smashed into me and knocked me down. My gun flew a half dozen feet away.

LaMonica moved first. Dropping the purse, he made a flying leap at Big Julie and grabbed his right arm with both hands just as the suspect made a break for the street. This didn�t stop him, but it slowed him enough for Andy to get there and put a clamp on his other arm.

Frank and I made our feet just as Big Julie swung his arms together. The two men clinging to him crashed into each other. Both emitted grunts but managed to keep their grips. Then I had a grip on the suspect�s right wrist and Frank had his left.

The next few seconds left no doubt in my mind that Big Julie was more than a match for any alligator. He had all four of us flopping around like rag dolls. Then LaMonica�s shoulder caught my chin with a jolt that broke my grip and drove me backward with my ears buzzing. Big Julie took several ponderous steps toward the street, dragging the other three officers right along with him.

I abandoned wrestling in favor of a tried-and-tested standard police hold. Shaking the cobwebs from my brain, I moved in behind the suspect. I stooped to grab both ankles and simultaneously butted him in the back with my shoulder.

Big Julie dropped on his face like a falling timber, dragging everybody with him.

It was all over then. LaMonica whipped the man�s right arm behind his back, Andy forced his left backward, and I snapped on the cuffs.

Frank said, �Ugh!�

It wasn�t until he grunted that I realized Frank had ended up beneath Big Julie�s two hundred and fifty pounds. When we pulled Julie to his feet, Frank lay there for a moment before painfully rising. He felt of his various joints and let out a sigh.

�Guess it just knocked the wind out of me,� he decided. �Thought I heard bones snapping all over my body.�

The woman was still standing where she had been when all the action had started. My gun had landed right at her feet, but she�d been too scared to notice it. I picked it up and put it away.

Andy and LaMonica were hustling Big Julie toward Andy�s car. I looked around.

�Hey!� I said to Frank. �Where�s Strite?�

Apparently the woman thought I was speaking to her. In a scared voice she said, �He ran back inside.�

Five minutes later we found him cowering in the back of a closet in the apartment, his hands still cuffed behind him.

With the woman�s permission we gave the apartment a thorough shakedown. In a shoebox on a closet shelf we found $2,660 in currency. The woman insisted it was hers. We suspected it was the remaining part of the loot from the market holdup.

We marked the box and took it along as evidence.

The next morning Frank and I got together with Andy and LaMonica. It was decided to hold a special show-up that night. The two Homicide officers got on separate phones to line up their witnesses. Frank and I thought it best to make a personal visit to James Dehelvey.

The supermarket owner wasn�t any happier to see us than he�d been the previous day. The news that both suspects were in custody didn�t seem to cheer him any.

He said, �If it�s those same men whose pictures you showed me, there�s no point in me coming tonight. I know they�re not the ones.�

�Look, Mr. Dehelvey,� I said. �We know you�ve been threatened, and we don�t blame you for being scared. But these men can�t hurt you from prison. You cooperate, and we�ll put them away for years.�

�I�m cooperating,� he said testily. �I�ll come down to your show-up, or whatever you call it.�

His tone meant that he�d humor us that far, but he was sure it was a waste of time. Frank and I examined him in silence for so long he began to grow uncomfortable.

�It�s all very well for you guys,� he said querulously. �You carry guns, and you�ve got a whole police department behind you.�

I said quietly, �It�s behind you, too, Mr. Dehelvey. It�s behind every honest citizen.�

�Yeah. If I end up on a slab, you�ll track down my killer.� This was his first real admission that he�d been threatened. But we didn�t pounce on it, for fear that he�d clam up again.

Frank said in a tone as quiet as mine had been, �They can�t hurt you from jail.�

�They can�t, no.�

As soon as the words were out, he looked as though he wished he hadn�t said them. His jaws clamped shut with an audible click of teeth. It was time to pounce.

I said, �It was somebody other than the suspects who threatened you, huh?�

He looked from me to Frank, then merely gave his head a sullen shake.

�You know who it was?� I persisted.

�Nobody!� he yelled. �Why do you keep pestering me?�

A woman pushing a grocery cart stopped to stare at us. Dehelvey gave her an abashed smile, and she moved on. Frank said, �Can you give us a description?�

Dehelvey emitted a weary sigh. �I�ve been pretty patient, Officers. But I don�t have to take this badgering. For the last time, I haven�t been threatened. For the last time, the men who robbed me weren�t in any of the pictures you showed. Now I have to get back to work.�

There was no point in trying again. He�d made up his mind. I said, �You will appear at the show-up, though?�

�Sure,� he said. �But it won�t do any good. What time?�

�Eight o�clock,� I told him. �In the auditorium on the first floor of the Police Building.�

Outside the store Frank looked at me and I looked at him. �What do you think, Joe?� he asked.

I said, �I think he�s not going to break. Ever.�

Back at the office we went into conference with Andy and LaMonica again. They said that there had been no indication from any of their four assault witnesses or the two victims that pressure had been brought to bear on them.

�The victims will be here, too,� Andy said. �They�re still bandaged up, but they�re out of the hospital.�

Christmas and New Year�s passed. January drifted into February and February into March.

On Wednesday, March 19th, at 3:32 p.m., Frank and I were driving down Sunset Boulevard on our way back to the office after interviewing a robbery witness in Hollywood. Frank was just slowing for the stop at Vermont Avenue when the radio sounded off.

�Attention, all units. All units in the vicinity of Vermont Avenue and Fountain Avenue. Two-eleven in progress at Dane�s Liquor Store, corner of Vermont and Fountain avenues. Witness reports lone WMA armed with pistol holding up store. Units Six-A-Seventy-seven and Six-A-Eighty-six handle the call. Attention, all units�!� Frank gave his horn button a push and swung right through the stop. At the same moment I pulled the transmission microphone from its bracket and called in, �Unit Nine-K-Two to Control One. Nine-K-Two to Control One.�

�Go ahead, Nine-K-Two,� the reply came.

�We are answering call at Vermont and Fountain avenues. We are one block from the scene.�

�Control One to Nine-K-Two. Roger.�

I hung up the microphone just as Frank swung into the curb a dozen feet this side of the liquor store. As we spilled out of either side of the car, a man wearing a tan leather jacket walked rapidly from the door of the establishment. He was of medium build, with a thin, weak-chinned face. He was about thirty years old. One hand was thrust inside the opening of his jacket.

Frank and I simultaneously drew our guns. I called, �Police officers, mister. Hold it right there.�

His hand came from inside his jacket, gripping a small-caliber revolver. I dropped to one knee just as he fired, felt the bullet pluck at the crown of my hat. My answering shot was echoed by one from Frank�s gun a microsecond later.

Both bullets hit the suspect, their impact causing him to trot backward on his heels for several steps. Then he sat heavily, let out a groan, and toppled over on his side.

I got to the man first. With one foot I kicked his fallen gun to Frank, who scooped it up and dropped it into a pocket. I knelt over him just as two radio cars screeched to a halt from opposite directions.

By the time I rose again, Frank had identified himself to the four uniformed policemen who had come in the cars, and they were putting their guns away.

I said, �He�s dead.�

Frank looked at the dead man and slowly holstered his gun. �Which one was it, Joe?� he asked in a low voice.

�Which what?�

�Which bullet?�

I looked at him, and saw that while his face was expressionless, it was slightly pale.

�I don�t know,� I said. �Maybe both.�

The proprietor of the store came outside then, but it was some minutes before he calmed down enough to give us a coherent story. Meantime, a crowd was gathering. The four uniformed policemen began to disperse the crowd while Frank called in a report over the radio and I questioned the proprietor.

There wasn�t much to the story. The liquor-store owner said the suspect had entered the store about ten minutes earlier, had asked for a bottle of whisky, then had pulled a gun and held him up. The owner had given him seventy-two dollars from the cash register. He said he had never before seen the dead man, and had no idea who he was.

A check of the body disclosed that the suspect had thrust the seventy-two dollars into one of his jacket pockets. There was also three dollars in his wallet and a little change in another pocket. Papers in the wallet identified him as Gerald Federson and gave his address as a rooming house near New Chinatown.

An ambulance arrived to pick up the body. Frank and I climbed back into Unit 9K2 and resumed our trip to the Police Building.

We drove along in silence for a few moments. Then Frank said tentatively, �Joe?�

�Yeah?� I said.

�You think maybe we could have taken him alive?�

�How?� I asked.

�Well, shot at his arm, for instance. It all happened so fast, I aimed right for his belt buckle.�

�So did I,� I told him. �Think you could have hit his arm?�

Frank was silent for a time. Then he said, �What bothers me is I didn�t try.�

�Both bullets were in his chest,� I said. �We both shot high. If we�d tried for his arm, we�d have missed him altogether.�

Frank glanced sidewise at me. �That right?�

�Yeah.�

Belatedly remembering the bullet that had plucked at my hat, I took it off and looked at it. It had two neat holes in the crown, one at the front and one at the back. I stuck my finger through the front one from inside and held it up for Frank to see.

Frank didn�t say anything when he glanced at it. But he suddenly looked relieved.

The letter read:

The other letters were in the same vein. Sometimes they were merely chatty, discussing books the writer had read, movies he had seen, or current news items. Other times there were obscure references to the �operation� that would make him well and to �postoperative business plans.� One thing stood out in all of them, although it was entirely negative: There was not the slightest intimation as to where the writer was located.

When I finished reading the last letter, I looked at Frank. Frank said, �Looks like we stumbled onto something, huh?�

�Yeah,� I said. �Right up our alley, too. Supermarkets.�

�What do you think, Joe? I mean, how do you take all that double talk?�

�Somebody�s planning a gang operation. A big one.�

Frank nodded. �Way I got it. You catch that reference to the �Los Angeles franchise�?�

�Yeah.�

�Sounds like we�re only part of it.�

�Uh-huh,� I said. �Looks like Frisco gets dealt in, too.�

�Maybe more than that.�

�How do you mean?� I asked.

�Sounded to me like they were planning a statewide operation.�

The next morning when I checked in at 8:00 a.m. I found a reply to our inquiry to C.I.I. in my box. Gerald Federson had a record of four arrests and two convictions in San Francisco. Three of the arrests were as a juvenile: one for ADW, one for grand theft � auto, and one for forced rape. He�d been convicted of the last only, and had served two years at Preston for it. As an adult he�d taken a five-year fall for armed robbery. He�d served three of the five.

Frank came in, said, ��Morning, Joe,� and started to check the message book.

I said, �I already caught it, Frank. Nothing.� I handed him the report from C.I.I.

Frank looked it over, grunted, and handed it back. �Been to Handwriting yet?� he asked.

�No,� I said. �Just pulled in. Let�s see what they can tell us.�

Handwriting is on the same floor as Robbery Division, at the opposite end of the hall. We found Keith Woodward alone there. Woody is a stocky, dark-haired man with the soft-spoken manner of a bank teller. I handed him the stack of letters and asked him to check them against Big Julie Martin�s 5.7.

A Form 5.7 must be made out by all persons arrested in Los Angeles except drunks and traffic violators. On the front of the card, in his own handwriting, the suspect writes in his name, address, place and date of birth, occupation, where employed, name and address of nearest relative, and the date he completed the form. This would seem to be enough to give an adequate handwriting sample, but there are more spaces for him to fill in on the reverse of the card. Here, in addition to items of physical description, there are spaces in which he must write the complete alphabet in longhand, both in capitals and small letters. There is also a space in which he must write the numbers one to twenty.

Woody pulled Big Julie�s 5.7 from a file cabinet and briefly compared it to the letters. It didn�t take him more than thirty seconds to come to a conclusion.

Shaking his head, Woody said, �Sorry, Joe. Martin didn�t write them.�

Frank asked, �Any chance he could of dictated them to somebody?�

Woody gave him a quizzical look. �You think we�re miracle men around here?�

�I�ve seen you pull some near miracles,� Frank said. �I just wondered.�

The challenge seemed to appeal to Woody. Seating himself behind his desk, he quickly scanned all five letters. Then he singled out one sheet, read it carefully, and finally examined it with a magnifying glass.

�For what it�s worth,� he said presently, �my opinion is that it�s unlikely they were dictated.�

�What do you base that on?� I asked curiously.

�The writing, the spelling, and the punctuation all match the vocabulary. You noted the unusually good vocabulary, didn�t you?�

Frank nodded, and I said, �Yeah.�

�If it was dictated, the writer was as highly educated as the person who did the dictating. There isn�t a single hesitation mark, as there would be if he�d had to stop and ask how to spell a word. And no mistakes in punctuation. You got some reason to believe they were dictated by Martin?�

�Just a hope,� I said. �Would have made things easier. Now we�re nowhere.�

�Larry will be along any minute,� Woody said. �Want his opinion, too?�

He referred to Larry Sloan, the other handwriting expert.

�Naw,� I said. �We gave up long ago trying to catch you guys in a mistake.�

11:17 a.m. When Frank and I reported back to the office, we found a teletyped reply from San Francisco to our earlier request. Three relatives and seven known associates of Gerald Federson were listed. The two relatives besides the dead man�s brother, Lester, were married sisters.

I phoned all the names to R & I, and learned that four of the associates had local records. When the clerk at R & I asked if we wanted the packages pulled, I said, �Later, maybe. We�ll be down if we do.�

There was no point in having them pulled before we�d been to Handwriting. All we wanted to know at the moment was which of Federson�s associates had local records, so we could have Handwriting check them out.

As Frank and I walked down the hall toward Handwriting, Frank said gloomily, �Don�t suppose well be lucky enough to have one of them match, do you?�

I shrugged. �We�re about due for a break.�

�Overdue. Shouldn�t we wire Frisco for handwriting samples of those who haven�t got records here?�

�If none of these match,� I said.

But for once we got our break. When Woody checked the second of the four 5.7.�s against the photostated letters, he said, �Bingo.�

�Turn something?� I asked.

�Just your letter writer.� He tossed the card across the desk to me.

Even to my unskilled eye it was apparent that the writing on the card was the same as that in the letters. The suspect was a Maurice (Maury) Wey, aged thirty-one, and the charge listed was armed robbery.

�Even the initial fits,� Frank said in a pleased voice. �The M wasn�t for Martin, it was for Maury.�

We went downstairs to the Golden Horseshoe and pulled Maurice Wey�s package. According to it, he was serving twenty years on four counts of armed robbery, and had already served five.

Maury Wey�s mugg shot showed a handsome, smooth-featured man with a straight nose, clear wide-spaced eyes, and an intelligently high forehead. His description said he was five feet ten and a half inches and weighed one hundred seventy-two pounds.

Frank said dissatisfiedly, �Nothing in here about him being well-educated. He didn�t even finish high school.�

�He�s been five years in the Joint since this was written up,� I said. �Maybe he spent it studying.�

We copied off a list of Wey�s known associates for future reference and turned the package back in. Then we returned to the squad room and went over the letters again in the light of our new knowledge that their writer was an inmate of San Quentin. It now seemed more evident than ever that reference to the �operation� was code for a planned prison break.

�Guess we�d better phone the warden and drop a warning,� I said.

Frank was still examining one of the letters. �Listen to this, Joe. �As soon as the chairman of the board completes his vacation � which should be at the end of this month�.� What do you make of that?�

�That Wey isn�t the boss of the gang. Somebody else is.�

�Yeah. Somebody he�s in close contact with. He writes as though he has frequent conversation with him.�

I thought this over, said slowly, �Which means he�s in San Quentin, too. And up for release at the end of this month.�

�Uh-huh. Fits Big Julie Martin, doesn�t it?�

�It�s an angle,� I admitted. �Little too easy, though.�

Frank hiked his eyebrows. �How�s that?�

I said, �We only looked in Big Julie�s direction in the first place because the letters were so well-written. And he checked out on that. We don�t have a thing to connect him with any of this.�

Frank gave a reluctant nod. �Guess it is a little hopeful. Things don�t come that easy.�

�At least we�ve got a pretty good idea the leader of this gang gets out at the end of the month. When I phone the prison, I�ll ask for a complete list of men up for parole about then.�

The following afternoon, Friday, March 21st, Gerald Federson�s landlady phoned to tell us that the dead man�s brother had cleared all personal effects from the room. She said he had not inquired about police visiting the room, and she had volunteered no information.

The next day, Saturday, the information the assistant warden at San Quentin had promised me arrived. It listed twenty-three inmates who either had been released recently or were due for release within the next few weeks. I noted that both Big Julie Martin and Harry �Beak� Strite were on the list.

The assistant warden had taken the trouble to include the record of each parolee. Thirteen were white-collar criminals. These we eliminated from our calculations immediately, as it was unlikely that a robbery gang would attempt to recruit this type of man. It was equally unlikely that a white-collar criminal would have anything to do with armed robbery.

The remaining ten men all seemed good prospects as possible members of the gang. Four were already out of prison. One had a Los Angeles address, one lived in San Diego, and two were from San Francisco. We arranged for a stakeout on the local man and teletyped requests to San Diego and San Francisco to have the other three covered.

We also contacted the sheriff�s office of Marin County, in which San Quentin is located, and arranged for tails to pick up the six men due for release the moment they walked out the prison gates. Sheriff�s deputies would turn over this detail to local officers as soon as the men reached their home towns.

When Frank and I had completed all these arrangements, we met with Captain Peters and Chief Brown in the latter�s office to make a complete report of our activities.

Chief Brown nodded when we finished. �Looks like you�ve covered all possible angles. Don�t see how this gang could commence operations without our knowing about it.�

�Yeah,� I said. �Gives you a funny feeling, though.�

�How�s that?�

�Like sitting on a powder keg in the center of a ring of guys with torches. And trying to look every way at once to see who�s going to light the fuse.�

West Sixth and Bixel is only a dozen blocks from the Police Building. It took us two minutes to get from the third floor to the garage, and about another two and a half minutes to reach the scene with our siren wide open. I barely had time to report in by air that we were answering the call before we were there.

Radio cars, their sirens screaming, were converging from all sides when we braked to a halt in front of the supermarket. Usually sirens bring an avalanche of curious onlookers, but in this case the gun duel had driven bystanders to cover. There wasn�t a soul in sight on the street except for two uniformed policemen. One lay on the sidewalk on his stomach, the other knelt over him. The kneeling officer�s right arm hung limply at his side, and his shoulder was bright with blood.

His face was white with shock when he looked up as Frank and I leaped from the car with drawn guns.

�They headed south on Bixel not thirty seconds ago,� he said. �Two men. Black fifty-eight Mercury sedan. California license KXT-Two-Oh-Nine.�

We didn�t wait to hear any more. By now two other police cars had arrived, so there would be plenty of aid for the wounded men. Frank and I jumped back into the car and roared off down Bixel.

Lifting the microphone from its bracket, I said, �Nine-K-Two to KMA-Three-Six-Seven, Control One.�

A voice from the speaker immediately replied, �Go ahead, Nine-K-Two.�

�We are proceeding south on Bixel from Grammon�s Supermarket, at West Sixth and Bixel. A pair of two-eleven suspects drove from the scene about thirty seconds ago in a black fifty-eight Mercury sedan, California license KXT-Two-Oh-Nine. No description of suspects. We do not have car in sight. Two officers were wounded by suspects. Over.

�Control One to Nine-K-Two. Roger. Attention, all units. Two suspects in black fifty-eight Mercury sedan, California license KXT-Two-Oh-Nine, proceeding south on Bixel from Sixth. Suspects are armed and have wounded two officers. Code Three. All units not in pursuit maintain radio silence.�

Bixel ends at Seventh Street. We jogged left, then right again onto Golden Avenue, which is virtually a continuation of Bixel. By now we were nearly to Olympic. Frank cut the siren and began to brake as an accident scene appeared ahead. A low-slung sports car was crosswise in the center of the street, its left rear fender crushed and its left rear wheel broken, so that the car canted at an angle. A man wearing a loud sport coat was dazedly climbing from behind the driver�s wheel.

The left front fender of a black sedan rested against the rear of the sports car. The sedan�s right front wheel was up on the curb.

I peered ahead at the sedan�s license plate as Frank slowed. �That�s the car,� I said.

We were now less than a quarter block away, and I reached for the door handle to jump from the car as soon as Frank came to a full stop. Suddenly the sedan�s motor roared, and it backed from contact with the sports car. Then it surged forward over the curb and onto the sidewalk. After rolling along the sidewalk for a dozen yards, it shot out into the street again between two parked cars.

There wasn�t room to get past the sports car on either side. Frank followed the sedan�s route, bumping up over the curb, running along the sidewalk, and bumping down off the curb again between the two parked cars. The black sedan swung left on Olympic just as we reached the street.

I had been too busy keeping my head from slamming into the windshield to reach for the microphone. But as we reached an even keel, I grabbed it from its bracket.

�Nine-K-Two to Control One,� I said.

�Go ahead, Nine-K-Two.�

�Have sighted Mercury sedan. Just turned east on Olympic from Golden. Wanted car was just involved in an accident and is now damaged on left side. We are in pursuit.�

Our siren, and the screeching of tires as we rounded the corner, all but drowned out the acknowledgment of our message.

Hanging up the mike, I drew my gun and leaned from the window. Our siren had halted traffic, clearing the way for both us and the fleeing Mercury. The sedan had a half block lead on us when we turned onto Olympic. By the time we neared Figueroa, we had closed the gap to a quarter block. But there were too many cars pulled over to the curb on both sides of the street to risk a shot.

A block and a half ahead a police car appeared, coming toward us with its siren wide open. The Mercury did a dirt-track turn and roared south on Figueroa. Frank wheeled right after it in an equally perilous turn, and a moment later the other police car shot around the corner and joined the parade.

For some miraculous reason there was no traffic at all on Figueroa at the moment, affording me my first chance for a clear shot since the chase had begun. I took careful aim and squeezed off two shots at the right rear tire.

Both missed.

I was aiming for a third shot when an arm reached out from the right front window of the car ahead. The companion of the driver was on his knees in the front seat, facing the rear, and there was a gun in his left hand. I saw his muzzle flash just before I squeezed the trigger.

There was a sound similar to that made by a cork being pulled from a bottle, and simultaneously something stung my cheek. It deflected my aim just enough to make me shoot high. I could see the mark made by the bullet as it plunked into the Mercury�s trunk.

The car ahead made another dirt-track left turn into Pico. As Frank spun us around the corner after it, I glanced at our windshield and saw what had made the popping sound. There was a neat hole in the center of the windshield. I touched my cheek and felt a drop of blood where a fragment of glass had hit my face.

We were right on the Mercury�s tail now. Aiming carefully, I squeezed off another shot. This time I was rewarded by seeing the car ahead swerve crazily, right itself, and swerve again. Frank nearly put me through the windshield as he slammed to a halt to avoid crashing into the Mercury�s rear.

There was a little more traffic on Pico than on Figueroa, but not much, and what little there was had stopped in obedience to our siren. The Mercury missed a motionless car facing us by a hair, barely missed a lamppost as it jolted up on the right-hand curb, careened along the sidewalk, and came to a halt with its right front fender crunched against the side of an office building.

Frank jerked on the emergency brake in the middle of the street, and we tumbled from either side of the car. Both front doors of the Mercury were flung open first, though. The two suspects were ducking into the areaway between two office buildings before our feet hit the street.

I got a bare glimpse of both from the back just before they disappeared. One was of average size, the other slim and only about five feet six or seven. Both wore tan jackets, tan slacks, and brown hats.

As the trailing police car screeched to a halt behind us, Frank and I headed for the area way at a dead run. I got there first, just in time to see the smaller suspect round the corner into the alley at the far end.

We made the alley in time to spot the smaller suspect astride an eight-foot board fence on its other side. I got a bare glimpse of his face. He had an oversized nose and wore horn-rimmed glasses. He dropped out of sight before either of us could snap a shot at him.

We both holstered our guns, ran toward the fence, leaped to grip the top and pull ourselves up. A bullet slammed into the boards immediately beneath me as I swung a leg over.

I didn�t take time to use the approved method of completing my trip across the fence. That would have left me a stationary target too long. Instead of reversing my handhold, throwing my legs over, and letting my grip cushion my fall, I dove off my perch head first. Fortunately my hands hit soft dirt, I tucked my head under and started a gymnasium roll.

Unfortunately, my angle of descent was too steep. I completed the roll, but the back of my head smacked sickeningly against the ground as I somersaulted. If I hadn�t been wearing a hat, I probably would have brained myself. As it was, I bounced erect just as you�re supposed to at the end of the roll, ran two steps, and fell heavily to my hands and knees. I dug my fingers into the dirt as the ground heaved back and forth under me like the deck of a small boat in a storm.

After a moment my giddiness passed enough for me to raise my head and take a groggy look around. Ahead of me was a driveway running alongside a house to the street. There was no sign of the suspects.

I had been conscious of Frank straddling the fence at the same time I did, but had lost track of him while doing my unsuccessful acrobatics. Now I glanced over my shoulder to see him lying on his back at the base of the fence.

Shaking my head to clear it, I lurched to my feet and reeled back to Frank. As I reached him, he pushed himself to a sitting position and groaned.

�Hit?� I asked.

He shook his head, but instead of speaking, merely gulped in air and wheezed it out again.

I said, �Hurt?�

He shook his head again, finally managed to gasp, �Landed flat on my back. Knocked the wind out of me.�

Apparently Frank, too, had decided not to remain a sitting target, and simply had let himself fall off the fence.

�Go on after them,� he said. �I�m not going to be able to move for a while.�

It was good advice, but I wasn�t in very good shape to take it. My rap on the head had left me so dizzy I was supporting myself against the fence with one hand.

I tried, though. Giving my head another shake, I drew my gun and started down the driveway at a staggering trot.

The drive came out at Cameron Lane. I looked in both directions.

There was no sign of the suspects.

The gunfire had brought a number of people from their homes along Cameron Lane. Most were housewives, as it was only about nine in the morning and the men were off at work. A young woman on the porch to the right of the driveway stared at my gun from wide eyes.

I was beginning to recover from my blow on the head. Putting my gun away, I said to the woman, �Police officer, ma�am. Did you see a couple of men in tan jackets?�

�Both with big noses and glasses?� she asked. She pointed west. �They ran up that way.�

Frank limped up behind me then, and at the same moment the police car that had been trailing us came around the corner to the east of us. I waved it forward and into the curb. Only the driver was in the car.

Going over to the car, I showed my ID and asked, �Where�s your partner?�

�Left him covering the suspects� car, sir. They got away, huh?�

I said, �They headed west on foot. Two men, one of average build, the other slim and short. Five-six or seven. Both have large noses and wear glasses. Both are wearing tan jackets, tan slacks, and brown hats. Get it on the air and get this whole section blocked off.�

The officer said, �Yes, sir,� and reached for his microphone.

Frank didn�t look as though he was in shape to climb the fence again. We got back to our car by walking to the corner and around the block.

A small crowd had collected around the wrecked Mercury, but the uniformed stakeout was making people keep their distances.

I showed the man my ID and asked if he�d touched anything in the Mercury.

�No, sir,� he said. �Thought there might be fingerprints. There�s a briefcase in the back seat.�

Frank and I both peered into the back seat. The briefcase lay on the seat, and it was so full, it bulged.

Frank said, �Looks like they abandoned the loot.�

�We�ll hope,� I said. I told the uniformed officer to stay with the Mercury and let no one touch it until someone from Latent Prints arrived.

There was no point in our sticking around for the manhunt. Within minutes police units would surround the entire area and begin to close in. The search would be conducted according to standard procedure, and our presence would add nothing. We could be more useful at the robbery scene.

I reported the location of the wrecked Mercury by radio, requested a man from Latent Prints, and told Control One that we were returning to Grammon�s Supermarket for investigation.

We continued to talk to the victim. His descriptions of the suspects conformed pretty well to the estimates of height and weight Frank and I had made from our brief glimpses of the two men. Grammon judged the larger man to be about five feet eleven and a hundred eighty pounds, the smaller one to be about five-six and a hundred thirty.

He said he was unable to describe their faces.

�Why not?� I asked. �They weren�t masked, were they?�

�Not exactly. But you know those false noses attached to glasses frames that you can buy in dime stores?�

�Yeah,� I said, beginning to understand something that had been puzzling me ever since I had seen the smaller suspect astride the fence. I had wondered why a heist artist with such a prominent and easily identifiable nose hadn�t bothered to cover it with a mask.

�They were wearing those. Pretty smart disguise, too.�

Frank said, �How�s that?�

�Well, they change a man�s whole appearance.�

�So does a handkerchief mask,� Frank said.

�Yeah, but you could spot a masked man a block away. With these things, even a passerby might not notice you unless he happened to look right in your face.�

As it was now well past noon, we stopped at a coffee shop for lunch before visiting Harry Strite�s employer. It was 1:15 p.m. when we arrived at the Wilshire Coal and Wood Yard.

The company�s manager was a thin, mournful-looking man with the largest Adam�s apple I ever saw. It moved up and down his long throat whenever he spoke, and sometimes even when he wasn�t speaking, creating the impression that he had swallowed a yo-yo. His name was Manfred Thornton.

We found Thornton in a glass-enclosed office next to the truck entrance to the yard. When we identified ourselves and told him our business, he frowned.

�I hope Harry isn�t in trouble,� he said. �He�s a good worker.�

�We�re just making a routine check, sir,� I told him.

�What�s he suspected of?�

�Nothing yet,� I said. �Maybe he�ll check out clear.�

Thornton�s Adam�s apple rose and fell again. �You mean you�re just checking on him because he�s on parole? Some crime�s been committed that you can�t solve, so you�re hounding Harry. Just because he made a mistake once. I knew it would happen.�

His tone was suddenly so angry, I let my own voice become cautious. �Knew what would happen, sir?�

�You fellows never let a man forget his past. Harry�s paid his debt to society. Why can�t you let him alone?�

I said, �We�re not bothering him. If your answers to a few questions check him out clean, we won�t even talk to him.�

�Well, I resent the whole procedure. I told the parole officer how I felt about it the first time he came to see me. When he came to check on whether I was actually willing to give Harry a job. Harry wasn�t even out of prison yet, and already they were hounding him.�

Frank said, �Verification that Strite had a job waiting was part of the parole officer�s job, Mr. Thornton. Strite couldn�t have been paroled without it.�

The Adam�s apple bobbed again. �That�s what all you people say. It�s part of your job. How�d you feel if someone went to your employer asking questions about you every time some candy store was robbed?�

I said mildly, �You�re pretty fond of Harry, huh?�

�Not particularly. It�s just a matter of common justice. I�m a champion of the underdog.�

I said, �As police officers we appreciate the importance of men like you, Mr. Thornton. Not every employer is willing to take a chance on an ex-con. There�d be a lot fewer repeat offenders if more employers had the same confidence in rehabilitation that you do. But some ex-cons do repeat, which makes it tough on all of them. We have to make this check.�

This seemed to mollify him. He said grudgingly, �I suppose I have as much of a duty to society as I have to my employees. What do you want to know?�

I told him we merely wanted to verify Harry Strite�s movements that morning. Thornton pulled some dispatch slips from a spindle, sorted through them, and separated several.

�Well, he checked out in his truck at seven thirty,� he said. �Had three deliveries of firewood on it.� He read off the addresses, and Frank wrote them in his notebook. �Pulled back in at ten, loaded up again and took off. Should have completed those deliveries about one p.m. Imagine he�s stopped for lunch now, and will be back about two.�

�Thanks,� I said. �You�ve been very helpful.�

�This clear Harry of whatever you suspect him of?�

�It may,� I said.

His Adam�s apple slid up and down a couple of times. �Listen,� he said, with a slight air of embarrassment. �Maybe I sounded off too much when you first came in. But I�ve always resented the police persecuting people.�

Frank said, �We�ve been policemen a long time. And never persecuted anybody yet.�

�Maybe you haven�t. But lots of policemen do. I know.�

�How�s that?� I asked.

�They drove my younger brother to his grave.�

�Oh?� I said.

�Kid made a mistake, paid for it, and tried to straighten out. But you think the police would let him? Every time somebody knocked over a filling station, they were around asking where Dave was at the time.�

�That what he took his fall for?� I asked. �Knocking over a gas station?�

�Yeah. But it was just a kid stunt. He was only eighteen the first time.�

�Oh,� I said. �He did it more than once, huh?�

�Sure, when they kept hounding him. Guess he figured as long as he had the name, he might as well have the game.�

�You say he�s dead now?�

Thornton�s Adam�s apple made a mournful bob. �Two years ago. Got shot by a filling-station proprietor.�

As a result of Captain Peters� conference with Chief Brown, Martin and Strife were put back under round-the-clock surveillance. A search warrant was obtained, and their apartment was given a thorough shakedown for weapons and for the false noses with attached glasses frames that the bandits had worn.

Nothing was found. The surveillance had no result, either. It was almost as though the suspects knew they were under close observation and were carefully refraining from making contact with their confederates.

Captain Peters also talked by phone with the Attorney General�s office. It was decided to resume the original stakeouts on all the suspects throughout the state who were on the list of possible gang members.

Unfortunately only about half of them could now be located.

On Saturday, April 19th, a robbery team consisting of one man of average size and one tall, lean man about six feet one hit two supermarkets in downtown Los Angeles within an hour, both at closing time. One of the markets closed at 8:00 p.m., the other at 9:00. In both cases the manager was accosted as he approached his car after locking up for the night, was forced at gunpoint to reopen the door and open the safe.

Also, in both cases the suspects wore false noses attached to glasses frames, and bound their victims with adhesive tape before leaving. It was some hours after the crimes before the victims struggled loose from their bonds and reported the robberies.

The total take from both scores came to $7,000.

The physical descriptions of neither man came anywhere close to Big Julie or Harry Strite. Besides, they had iron-clad alibis for the period in question. They had been dining together in a restaurant under the eyes of a police stakeout.

One suspect fitted the description of Maury Wey. The other, the tall, lean man, was described as having a large purple birthmark on the left side of his neck. Stat�s turned a number of possibles who had similar marks, but all checked out clean.

None of the twenty-four men on the list of possible gang members we had compiled fitted the description.

It was Frank who came up with the idea that gave us our only real lead. We had just checked in on Monday morning when the thought hit him.

�Hey, Joe,� he said.

�Yeah?�

�Remember way back when Martin and Strite pulled that first supermarket job? The place on Sunset. What was the guy�s name?�

�Dehelvey,� I said. �James Dehelvey.�

�Yeah. And remember how sure we were that some pal of Martin and Strife�s had gotten to Dehelvey and scared him out of testifying?�

�Uh-huh.�

�Well, doesn�t it seem logical that a guy who was that good a friend of theirs would be a member of this gang?�

�Possibly. What are you getting at?�

�Maybe we ought to pay Mr. Dehelvey a visit.�

�Why?� I asked. �He wouldn�t talk before.�

�He might now if we offered him immunity. Told him we just wanted the dope off-the-record, and wouldn�t pull him into court to testify.�

After mulling this over, I said, �Worth a try, anyway. Let�s roll.�

Chief Brown had a serious expression on his face as we all took seats.

He opened the meeting by saying, �Gentlemen, this Operation Statewide thing is unique in my experience as a police officer.�

�How�s that, sir?� Captain Hertel asked.

�In my thirty-some years of police work, I can�t recall another case in which we�ve had so much information and so few results. We had considerable information about this gang nearly two months before it ever tried to score. We knew the general plan of operation. We knew definitely one of the members � Maury Wey. If Friday and Smith�s theory is right, we know who the leader of the gang is and we know at least one other member. Both of them are under around-the-clock surveillance. We have a good description and a composite drawing of one of the remaining two members, and a general description of the fifth man. Yet these people have managed to go into operation under the noses of police throughout the state. To date the total loot exceeds forty thousand dollars. And worse than that, a police officer has been murdered and another wounded.�

Captain Peters said, �They have made us look kind of silly up to now.�

�That�s an understatement,� the chief snapped. �They�ve made police all over the state look like Keystone Kops. What action other cities are taking is beyond our control. But in Los Angeles I want this ring smashed. And smashed fast.�

After a moment of general silence, Captain Hertel said diffidently, �We all want that, sir. Any suggestions?�

�Yes. Information bulletins describing the gang�s tactics have already gone to every supermarket manager in the Los Angeles area. Managers have been requested never to open or close their stores when alone. They�ve been asked to arrange to have several employees around at those two crucial times. I�ve requested Metro to follow up with personal visits by beat officers to make sure store managers have read the bulletin and are following its advice. Metro is also collecting data on opening and closing hours, and will have radio units make spot checks of as many stores as possible at the times hits are most likely.�

�That ought to help,� Captain Peters said. �So far they haven�t hit any time except just before opening or just after closing.�

�Yeah,� Chief Brown said. �I considered putting plainclothes stakeouts on some of the larger stores during the most probable hit periods. Until I checked the yellow section of the phone book and saw how many there were.�

He caught the beginning of a grin on my face and said, �You�ve checked, too, huh, Friday?�

�Often,� I said. �Between seven and eight hundred grocers in the Los Angeles area.�

�Uh-huh. There�s something you and Smith can do, though.�

�Yes, sir?� I said.

�Set up a pin map. See if you can develop some kind of directional trend in their MO.�

�There have been only three hits here,� I objected. �Hardly enough to show a directional trend.�

�Yeah, I know,� the chief said. �But I have a hunch.�

�What�s that, sir?�

�Before long you�ll have plenty of pins in your map.�

7:14 p.m. We were still waiting for a report on the suspects.

Frank lit the fourth cigarette in an hour and said, �Kind of hard to decide which would be better.�

�What�s that?� I asked.

�To have �em spotted and picked up on the street, or hope they try to score.�

When I didn�t say anything, he went on, �Picking them up might save somebody from getting killed tonight.�

�Yeah,� I said.

�On the other hand, there�s nothing to charge them with. No crime to shake a cover. Particularly when you�re not supposed to know you�re being tailed.�

I grunted.

�Kind of hope they don�t get picked up,� Frank decided.

�Why?�

�Just postpone the fireworks to another time.�

9:48 p.m. We left Andy and LaMonica waiting for the coroner�s ambulance and the civilian photographer, while we drove back to the office. As we pulled away from the supermarket, Frank shook his head.

�Always has to be a hero,� he said.

�Not always,� I said. �Most people follow what our bulletins say to do.�

�I suppose,� he conceded. �But this guy didn�t even seem sorry. Acted proud of himself.�

�Well, of course he didn�t get the kid killed on purpose. No question about him having the legal right to defend himself.�

�Hope that lets him sleep better,� Frank said sourly.

We rode along in silence. Then Frank said, �Didn�t our want on Martin and Strite describe them as wearing dark suits?�

�Yeah.�

�Suspects wore tan jackets and slacks. And if they�d gone home to change, they�d have been picked up by the stakeouts.�

�Doesn�t mean much,� I said.

�How you figure?�

�You don�t necessarily have to be home to change clothes.�

We got a surprise when we walked into the squad room. Under the watchful eye of a uniformed officer, Big Julie and Harry Strife sat side by side in a corner. Both wore dark-blue suits, white shirts, and dark ties. Big Julie grinned when he saw us, and lifted one large hand in a lazy salute.

I recognized the policeman as one who worked the downstairs desk. I gave him a questioning look.

�They were picked up on a business dispute at a foreign-film theater on Wilshire,� the officer said. �Place called the Odean.� He looked at a complaint form in his hand. �At nine thirty-two p.m. Just a half hour ago.�

Frank and I looked the two men over without saying anything.

�Arresting officer recognized them from your want,� the policeman went on. �Probably would just have warned them and let them go otherwise. Instead he brought them in.�

I said, �What was the disturbance?�

Big Julie answered before the officer could speak. �It was hardly a disturbance, Lieutenant. We just wanted our money back. It was a lousy show.�

�Yeah?� I said.

��An orgy of sex,� the blurb said. I warned the ticket seller when we went in that we�d demand our money back if the show didn�t live up to its ad. She guaranteed that it would. But it was about as sexy as a Donald Duck cartoon.�

�Was, huh?�

�Most boring thing I ever attended. All in French, with British subtitles. There ought to be a law against such misleading advertising.�

I said in a bored tone, �Suppose you still have your stubs.�

Big Julie simulated surprise. �I don�t know. Probably dropped them on the theater floor.� He made an elaborate search of his pockets, finally came up with a ticket stub from the last one he looked in. �I did happen to save it,� he said in a pleased voice.

Harry Strife had been searching his pockets, too. He said, �Whata�ya know? I happened to save mine, too.�

I took both stubs, glanced at them, and dropped them into a pocket.

�Let�s go,� I said to the suspects.

�Where?� Big Julie asked.

�Down to the Felony Section.�

�For what?� he demanded. �You can�t hold us for a little thing like this.�

�We aren�t,� I told him.

�Then what�s the charge?�

�Couple of minor things.�

�Like what?�

�Suspicion of armed robbery,� I said. �Plus suspicion of murder.�

12:29 a.m. Andy and LaMonica had returned to Homicide Division by the time we got back to the Police Building. They reported that a blue �56 Buick sedan, believed to be the one used in the robbery, had been found parked a dozen blocks from the robbery scene. D.M.V. had identified it as a stolen car.

It had been wiped clear of prints.

They also told us that twelve bullets had been recovered from food tins and boxes in the grocery store. These, and the gun belonging to the store manager, had been turned over to the Crime Lab.

We told Andy and LaMonica about the suspects� alibi, Andy�s reaction was a sour grin. LaMonica gave his head a disgusted shake.

�Their tickets were actually in the box, huh?� LaMonica said.

�Yeah,� I said. �They didn�t miss a bet.�

Frank said, �Probably did what you suggested first, Joe. Handed in their tickets a couple of minutes before the show broke, then walked back out with the crowd when it did break.�

�What do you think, Joe?� Andy asked. �They got us beat again?�

I looked at him. �We won�t give up just yet.�

�How you going to stick them? Our own stakeouts will have to testify that at four p.m. they were dressed exactly as they are now. The bandits were dressed entirely different. Sure the alibi�s phony, but how you going to break it? We�ve all had enough previous dealings with them to know how far we�ll get with just questioning. On the evidence we�ve got, the D.A. wouldn�t issue a complaint in a thousand years.�

�Then we�ll get more.�

�How?� Andy asked.

�For one thing, we can hold a special show-up tomorrow night. Dress them as the robbers were dressed and put false noses on them. Show them with a few other men about their sizes dressed in the same way. It�s a long shot, but there�s at least a chance we�ll get positive makes.�

Andy screwed up his nose. �What�s another thing?� he asked.

I turned to Frank. �You got the stakeout reports on Martin and Strite?�

�Over in the office,� he said.

�How about bringing them over?�

Frank crossed the hall to Robbery Division and returned with a sheaf of papers. I thumbed through them.

�Nothing in here about them attending the Odean prior to tonight,� I said.

LaMonica said, �What you mean?�

�The same show�s been on since Sunday. According to the stakeout reports, they weren�t near the Odean before tonight.�

An understanding light grew in LaMonica�s eyes. �You mean maybe they don�t know what the show was about?�

�Unless they saw it tonight, they�re going to have a tough time describing it.�

Andy shook his head. �As cute as they�re playing this, they wouldn�t slip on a detail like that. They could have had some other member of the gang see the show and describe it to them.�

�Imagine they did,� I said. �But you can�t get all the details of a show from somebody else�s description. You fellows got anything on tomorrow afternoon?�

LaMonica shook his head and Andy said, �Nothing I can�t get out of.�

�Then meet us at the Odean at one p.m. We�ll take in a matinee.�

8:04 p.m. We held the special show-up in the auditorium. We picked three police officers of about Big Julie�s size to stand up with him, and three civilian employees of Harry Strife�s general height and build to stand with him. We had to settle for civilian employees because there weren�t three police officers as small as Strite available.

All eight were dressed in tan jackets, tan slacks, and brown hats, similar to what the bandits had worn. And each wore a false nose attached to glasses frames.

One by one the eight men were told to move forward from the height chart and stand in the yellow circle in the center of the stage. The sergeant at the control panel at the rear of the auditorium asked the standard questions over his microphone. These were questions of a general nature, designed not so much to obtain information as to allow witnesses to hear the suspects� voices. They included such things as age, place of birth, and whether or not the suspect drove a car. The same routine questions are asked all suspects at all show-ups.

The suspects replied without the aid of an electronic amplifier. The acoustics of the auditorium were designed so that the normal speaking voice of anyone standing in the yellow circle can be heard clearly all over the room.

The show-up was a dud. The wounded clerk tentatively picked both Big Julie and Strite as the robbers, but wasn�t certain of either identification. The other clerk was unable to decide on anyone. Howard J. McQuary confidently picked one of the civilian employees as the smaller bandit. He pointed out the man he believed to be the larger one with equal lack of hesitation.

It was Sergeant Brady of Robbery Division.

Frank muttered to me disgustedly, �Shall we ask Brady for his alibi?�

We made one last try. After the show-up we had the suspects brought upstairs again and questioned them for an hour in separate rooms. This time Frank and I took Harry Strite and left Big Julie to Andy and LaMonica.

We got no admissions of any sort from either of them.

After returning the suspects to the Felony Section, we all met in the small coffee room downstairs to compare notes.

Andy said, �Kind of a bust, huh?�

�Yeah,� I said.

Frank said, �Not much doubt from the performance this afternoon that they never saw that show.�

I said, �Not in my mind.�

�Only thing is, would it stand up in court?�

�No,� I said.

All three of them looked at me.

I said, �That was just to satisfy us. A good lawyer could knock it to pieces. All he�d have to do is keep them off the stand. And let the theater personnel testify. Martin and Strite couldn�t even be asked what they remembered about the show.�

Frank said, �The prosecution could call us. Our testimony that, on questioning, the suspects didn�t know the details of the show ought to carry some weight.�

I shook my head. �You know the standard defense tricks. �Did they seem to know the general story line, Officer? Yes? Well, now, Officer, do you recall all the details of every movie you ever saw?��

LaMonica sighed. �Yeah. I�ve been in that spot. Sometimes it�s hard to tell who�s on trial. The defendant or the arresting officer.�

Andy said, �They�re gonna best us again, huh?�

�We�ll throw it in the chief�s lap tomorrow,� I said. �Ask him to talk it over with the D.A. But you know what the D.A. will say.�

�I�m afraid so,� Andy said. �But tell us anyway.�

�He�ll say, �turn �em loose.��

The section Frank and I drew was in the Hollywood district. We spent the rest of that day trudging from rooming house to rooming house, asking landlords and landladies if they had seen two men of Big Julie�s and Harry Strife�s descriptions on the afternoon or evening of Tuesday, April 22nd.

At 4:00 p.m. we stopped for a break in a little coffee shop on Franklin. We sat at the counter and ordered coffee.

As Frank stirred his coffee he said, �These are a couple of guys I�ll never forget.�

�Big Julie and Strife?�

�Yeah,� he said. �We�ve showed those pictures to so many people and have reeled off their descriptions so many times, I could draw a composite of �em twenty years from now.�

�Didn�t know you could draw,� I said.

�As a matter of fact, I�m pretty good.�

�That so?�

�I have an outstanding natural talent. Just needs development.�

�Oh? Never heard you mention it before.�

Frank said, �Just found it out recently.�

�How was that?�

�Well, I was lighting a cigarette one day, and happened to notice an ad on the match folder. The Bon Ton Art School. Advertised a free talent test. There was a picture of a girl�s head on the folder, and all you had to do was copy it in enlarged form on a piece of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper and mail in the drawing. No obligation.�

I said, �You mailed one in, huh?�

�Sure did. And you know what?�

�What?�

�The director of the school wrote me back personally. Said he usually left that to subordinates, but mine was such an unusual case he was writing me himself. Said I had about as much natural talent as he�d ever seen. Suggested I take their correspondence course.�

�For how much?� I asked.

�Only twenty-five bucks. For the beginning course.�

I said, �So now you�re getting the development you need, huh?�

�Well, no,� Frank said. �I talked it over with Fay. She asked what I intended to do after I finished the course. Quit the department and open a studio? Hadn�t occurred to me I wouldn�t have much use for it.�

�So you decided not to invest, huh?�

�Yeah,� Frank said. �But I�ve still got that natural talent.�

When we finished our coffee we went back to work. We decided to complete Franklin Street, which would take us until about 5:00, and knock off for the day.

Only a few moments after I hung up and returned to the room, the phone rang. Mrs. Burdette went to answer it.

We heard her say, �Hello.� There was a pause, then she said in a high, shaky voice, �Mr. Smith? Why... why, I don�t know if he�s here or not. What did you � I mean, wait till I see.�

I made the hall a hair ahead of Frank. Mrs. Burdette stood with the receiver still to her ear, looking toward me with a frightened expression on her face. I made a frantic gesture for her to drop the phone and walk away from it.

Instead she said in a piercing whisper, �It�s a call for Mr. Smith, Officer. What shall I��

I was to her then, and had clapped a palm over the mouthpiece. I took the handset from her unresisting hand and put the receiver to my ear. The line was still open, but after a moment there was a click and I heard the dial tone.

I hung up slowly. Mrs. Burdette looked at me from stricken eyes. �I did that all wrong, didn�t I?� she said. �I gave you away.�

�It�s all right, ma�am,� I said.

She put her hands to her cheeks. �Oh, I feel terrible. I said �Officer.� He heard me, didn�t he?�

�It was a man, huh? Recognize his voice?�

She shook her head.

�Could it have been Mr. Brown or Mr. Jones?�

�I don�t know,� she said. �It was just a man. I�ve spoiled everything, haven�t I?�

Frank said in a kindly tone, �This sort of thing isn�t something you�re used to, ma�am. Don�t worry about it. Could have happened to anybody.�

I left the job of soothing her feelings to Frank, while I dropped coins and dialed Madison 5-7911 again. A moment later�I had Captain Peters.

�We had some bad luck, skipper,� I said. �A phone call came for the suspect a minute ago. The landlady answered the phone. She got rattled and accidentally gave away that the police were here. It may have been some guy who had no connection with the gang, but I doubt it.�

�Why?� he asked.

�An innocent caller would have asked what was up. This guy hung up.�

�Doesn�t sound good,� the captain agreed. �I�ve already sent a team after Big Julie and Strite. Let�s hope they get there before your caller tips them off. Or they may realize the jig is up and come out shooting.�

�With what?� I asked. �We�ve had their place shaken down often enough to know they haven�t got any guns at home.�

�Well, yeah. But they might make a break for it.�

�They staked out?� I asked.

�Had tails when they left here. With instructions to commit hara-kiri if they lost them.�

�One thing could make it bad,� I said.

�What?�

�If the caller was Big Julie or Strite.�

There was no sound in the room during the next few minutes. I took up a stance next to the door, on the side of the knob. Frank stood on the other side of the door, his pistol in his hand. Brady faded to a corner with his gun trained on the door.

It grew so silent in the room I could hear the breathing of all three of us.

The downstairs door slammed, and we could hear footsteps ascending the stairs. A key slipped into the lock.

We let him get all the way into the room. He was pushing the door shut behind him when I thrust the muzzle of the riot gun into his stomach.

�Get �em high, mister,� I said. �Police officers.�

Maury Wey was even handsomer than he appeared in his mugg shot. The picture hadn�t shown his smooth, clear complexion or the long, silken lashes, which any woman would have envied. As an attempt at disguise he had grown a thin mustache, and had bleached it, his hair, and his eyebrows to an ash blond.

Beyond a slight narrowing of his eyes, Wey showed no emotion whatever. Slowly his hands rose to shoulder height. He glanced at Brady as the big sergeant moved forward, flicked another glance over his shoulder at Frank, then returned his gaze to me. There was no fright in his eyes. There wasn�t even surprise. They were as cold and unblinking as a coral snake�s.

I understood what San Quentin�s assistant warden had meant when he said Maury Wey probably wasn�t afraid of any man on earth. Even a brave man is likely to have some reaction if a riot gun is suddenly thrust against his stomach. At the very least you would expect a start of surprise.

Maury Wey didn�t turn a hair. He seemed almost psychotically indifferent to the guns around him.

In a cold voice he said, �You�re in luck. I haven�t got anything to go with.�

In spite of myself I felt a chill touch me at his total lack of fear. His words weren�t meant as a brag. He was simply informing us matter-of-factly that if he had been armed, he would have shot it out despite the odds against him.

It wasn�t normal. A really brave man is one who is able to overcome his natural fear in an emergency. Maury Wey didn�t have any to overcome. His type of courage is common in certain institutions.

In mental hospitals.

Frank moved in and gave the suspect a slower shakedown than he usually does. He did it carefully and thoroughly.

I wasn�t the only one Wey�s reaction had affected. He�d given Frank a chill, too.

Frank said, �He�s clean,� drew the suspect�s hands behind him, and snapped on the cuffs.

Latent Prints is right next door to R & I. We walked out one door, in another, and had Harvey Daniels� record pulled.

There wasn�t much doubt from the suspect�s description that we finally had a make on the squat, heavy-set member of the gang. He was described as five feet eight inches tall and weighing two hundred and two pounds. He was thirty-four years old, and his record went back twenty years. His first arrest had been for stealing a bicycle at the age of fourteen.

Since then he had managed to get himself arrested seventeen times, for everything from vagrancy to suspicion of homicide. He had five misdemeanor convictions and had drawn hard time twice, both times for armed robbery. On the first conviction he had done three out of five, on the second five out of five-to-life. Currently he was wanted for parole violation.

His mugg shot showed a wide, sullen face with a squashed-in nose that looked as though it had been broken repeatedly and never set.

�Little more progress every day,� Frank said with satisfaction. �Now if we can get a make on that guy with the birthmark, we�ll have every member of the gang pegged.�

We went upstairs to Robbery and got out the necessary bulletins on the suspect.

No leads developed on any of the gang members over the weekend.

On Monday, April 28th, the district attorney issued a complaint against Maurice Wey. The following day the suspect was held to answer at a preliminary hearing in Division 34 of the Municipal Court. He was bound over for the charges filed against him and transferred to the County Jail in the custody of the sheriff. His arraignment in the Superior Court was set for Monday, May 12th.

On Wednesday, April 30th, the first of a new series of robberies by the gang occurred in San Francisco. All four of the gang members still at large participated in the payroll robbery of an armored truck. The usual false-nose disguises were not used, and Big Julie, Harry Strite, and Harvey Daniels were positively identified from their mugg shots by the victims. The fourth suspect was the man with the birthmark, but no identification could be obtained.

The loot from the payroll robbery amounted to $150,000.

During the following week the gang hit five more times in widely separated parts of the state. For these jobs they again split into teams of two. They had now abandoned all attempts at disguise, and had also abandoned their previous MO of hitting only supermarkets.

The two robberies in the northern part of the state, one a supermarket and the other a loan office, were staged by Big Julie and Harry Strite. The three in the southern part of the state were the work of Harvey Daniels and the tall man with the birthmark. Targets included a drive-in theater, a restaurant, and a supermarket. Only the last was in the Los Angeles area.

The total score for the gang since the beginning of Operation Statewide now amounted to this: eleven successful robberies, with an aggregate take of nearly a quarter of a million dollars; two unsuccessful robberies, with no take; two homicides and two victims wounded.

An all-out effort was begun to locate the suspects. Their pictures and descriptions were circulated in newspapers throughout the state. All known sources of underworld information were tapped. Known associates and former associates of the three identified suspects were placed under surveillance, and many were brought in for questioning.

Until Tuesday, May 6th, none of these maneuvers had had the slightest result. The suspects struck, then disappeared as though swallowed up by the earth. It was theorized that they had several alternate hideouts throughout the state, but we were unable to get leads on any of them through underworld informers.

The suspects were behaving with unusual discipline for a robbery gang. Apparently they were spending none of the money. Between jobs they remained discreetly in hiding.

At 11:14 a.m. on May 6th, Mrs. Marie Winters, the blonde who had been with Big Julie and Strite the evening we had first picked them up, was brought to Robbery Division for questioning. We had not brought her in earlier because she was now listed in the record as only a �former associate� of Harry Strite. We knew that she had broken with Strite while he was in prison and had refused to resume their old association after he was released. However, we were now scraping the bottom of the barrel in our attempts to get some kind of lead, and we weren�t passing up anyone who had ever had the slightest association with any of the suspects.

We offered the woman a chair, and she nervously seated herself.

I said, �I guess you know why we want to talk to you, ma�am.�

�About Harry?� she asked.

�Yes, ma�am.�

�That�s what I figured,� she said. �But you know he�s not my boyfriend any more, don�t you?�

�Uh-huh.�

�I had enough of that stuff,� she said. �My old man was the same way.�

�Your father?� Frank asked.

�Naw. My former. Jack Winters. In and out of the can all the time. I told Harry when we got engaged that his first fall would wash us up. I�m not about to mark time for some jerk who�s sitting behind bars. Not after doing it once. I like my men around.�

�Yes, ma�am,� I said. �Then you don�t have any contact with Harry any more?�

�I didn�t say that,� she said. �He used to phone me once in a while. He�s still carrying the torch, I guess. But I wasn�t having any. I got a guy now who keeps his nose clean. And that�s the way it�s going to stay. I don�t owe Harry nothing. I saved his money for him and gave it to him when he got out�� She stopped abruptly and touched fingers to her mouth in a gesture of fright.

Frank said quietly, �That was Harry�s money we found at your place, huh? Not yours.�

�Not that money,� the blonde said in a weak voice. �Just a few bucks I was holding for him.�

I said, �If that was holdup loot, and you covered for Strite and Big Julie, you could still get in a lot of trouble, Mrs. Winters.�

�Honest, it wasn�t that,� she said quickly. �That was mine. A final settlement from my former. You ask him.�

�Where do we find him?� Frank asked.

�He moved up north. Seattle, I think. Last I heard, he was thinking of going to Alaska.� The thought seemed to relieve her, for she visibly relaxed.

There didn�t seem much future in this line of questioning, even if we eventually got the woman to admit she had lied about the money being hers. If she had turned it over to Harry Strite, it wasn�t recoverable. Anyway, it seemed obvious that she was going to stick to the story that the money was hers, and without a confession it would be impossible for us to prove differently.

I said, �You have any idea where Harry is now?�

She shook her head. �The letter he wrote me was postmarked Sacramento, but he was probably just passing through.�

�What letter?� I asked sharply.

�The one I got the other day. I thought you might want to see it, so I brought it along. I want to cooperate, see. I got nothing to hide.�

She fumbled in her purse and produced an opened envelope.

The letter was postmarked May 1st � the same day, incidentally, that Strite and Big Julie had knocked over a Sacramento loan office. It was written in ink on a double sheet of lined foolscap. I held it so that Frank could read it at the same time I did.

It read:

I gave Frank an inquiring look. He raised his eyebrows in a gesture meaning it was beyond him. I turned to the woman.

�What did you make of this, Mrs. Winters?�

�Just a lot of bull. Big Julie was always filling Harry with big ideas. Only they never came to nothing.�

I said, �Do you understand what he�s talking about? Did he ever mention anything like it before?�

She shook her head. �You know as much about it as I do. Know what I think?�

�What?�

�Big Julie�s sold them all a bill of goods. He�s a real con artist, you know. He�s got them so built up over some farfetched plan, they�re all turning their money over to him. When he�s ready, he�ll skip and leave them holding the bag.�

Frank said, �The name Salty mean anything to you? Or Harvey?�

�Why, I guess Harvey is Harvey Daniels.�

�You know him?�

She shook her head again. �Got his name from the papers. His picture was printed along with the rest. I guess Salty is the one you don�t know who he is. The guy they just printed a drawing of.�

I said, �You know who he is?�

�Well, back when I was engaged to Harry, he mentioned a guy named Salty a couple of times. Think they were kids together. But I never heard his last name or met him.�

We continued to question the woman, but she was unable to give us any more information. We let her go home after asking her to phone us immediately if she heard from Harry Strite again. She promised that she would.

On the chance that Salty might be a surname instead of a nickname, we ran it through R & I. There was no one on record with that surname. We then had Stat�s run it through the moniker file, but drew another blank.

We took the letter to Captain Peters� office. After reading it he suggested we all go to Chief Brown�s office and show it to him.

Thad Brown frowned when he finished reading the letter. �How do you take this, Friday?� he asked.

�Hard to say. Strite�s ex-girlfriend thinks Big Julie is pulling some kind of con act on his pals and intends to abscond with the whole bundle.�

�You think that?�

�I don�t know,� I said. �If Big Julie is playing it straight, you could take it that they�re planning to finance a revolution somewhere. Maybe in some small South American country.�

�Yeah,� the chief said. �Impression I got. You know, it would be a fine situation if they actually pulled it off.�

Captain Peters grimaced. �I got a picture of us trying to extradite the president of Guatemala to face robbery and murder charges.�

The chief said, �It�d be an embarrassing situation no matter what country it was. Odds are it�s either a con act on Big Julie�s part, or a pipe dream that couldn�t possibly come off. But I don�t think we better take a chance.�

�What do you mean, sir?� I asked.

�I�m going to turn this letter over to the F.B.I.�

We went over to Homicide with Harney to take a look at the file card. The ten-year-old address listed was a tenement house that long since had been torn down as part of the city�s slum-clearance program. The suspect�s parents were listed as Amos and Jean Saltenson.

There was no Saltenson listed in either the phone book or the city directory.

�Must of moved out of town,� Frank said.

�Uh-huh.� I turned to Harney. �The Paloma Gang still in existence?�

�Sure,� he said. �They keep pulling in young kids as new members as fast as the older ones drop out.�

�Whose district is it?�

�Central. That�s Ramirez and Emlet.�

�Could you have them do a little digging?�

�Sure. That�s their job.�

I said, �See if they can find anybody who remembers Saltenson. Try to find out where his parents moved. And if he had a girl he might have given a picture to. Even a ten-year-old picture would be some help. They might inquire about Harry Strite, too. We don�t need his picture, but just possibly some kid might come up with a lead.�

�Will do,� Harney said. �Ramirez and Emlet check in about six p.m. I�ll have them start digging tonight, and tell them to leave a note in your box before they check out.�

We went back to Robbery Division and got out an APB and local supplements reporting that the last member of the gang had now been identified as Edward Saltenson. We also teletyped C.I.I. and wired the F.B.I. in Washington for record checks.

The following morning I found a note in my box from Tony Ramirez of the Gang Squad. It said that he and Emlet had found widespread awareness among the members of the Paloma Gang that Saltenson and Strite were former members, and some pride that their former members had gained statewide publicity. But none of the present members had been able, or willing, to furnish any leads.

There was also a teletype from C.I.I. saying there was no record on Saltenson.

At noon a wire came from the F.B.I. saying there was no record on him in Washington, either.

During the following week there was no activity on the part of the robbery gang, and no new leads developed. On Monday, May 12th, Frank and I had to appear in the Superior Court for the arraignment of Maurice Wey.

The master-calendar courtroom, where the suspect was to be arraigned, is on the eighth floor of the Hall of Justice. As we rode up on the elevator, Frank said, �Funny thing, Joe.�

�What�s that?� I asked.

�They all end up here, one way or another. In this building, I mean.�

�Who�s that?�

�The wrong ones,� he said. �Some of �em make the eighth floor.�

�Uh-huh.�

�The rest make the morgue in the basement.�

The arraignment was set for 9:00 o�clock. We arrived a few minutes early and took seats in the front row. Gradually the rest of the room filled with witnesses, spectators, and lawyers until there were few vacant seats. Then a team of sheriff�s deputies brought in Maurice Wey and turned him over to a court bailiff. The suspect was dressed in neatly creased blue slacks and a light-blue sports shirt.

A plump, vaguely untidy-looking man in a wilted brown suit rose from a rear seat and approached the suspect and bailiff. He spoke briefly to the suspect, who nodded.

�Who�s that?� I asked Frank.

�Marcus Quade,� Frank said. �Could have gotten himself a better lawyer.�

�Oh?� I said.

�Been up for disbarment twice. Beat both raps, but the Bar Association is still out to get him. Gives the whole profession a bad name.�

�What�d he do?�

�Suborned a witness once. Case of mine, when I used to work Bunco-Fugitive, which is how I know about him. Then he barely skinned out of a blackmail mess.�

�Sounds like a nice fellow,� I said.

A voice from the front of the room said, �All rise, please,� and there was a general stirring as everyone in the courtroom got up for the judge�s entrance. The judge stepped up to the bench and said, �You may be seated.�

Eight cases came up before Maurice Wey�s. It was ten thirty when his name was finally called.

Marcus Quade stepped up to the bench and asked for a week�s delay to enter a plea.

�I was just engaged for the case, Your Honor,� he said. �I haven�t yet had time to study it.�

The judge�s reply made it plain that Wey�s attorney was not held in high esteem by his fellow members of the bar. The judge had just granted a similar delay to another attorney on the identical grounds.

�Three days should be enough to enter a plea,� he said testily. �You won�t be preparing a complete defense. Adjourned until May fifteenth. Next case.�

To one side of the courtroom there was a steel-grilled detention bullpen to which prisoners who were finished in court were herded to await transfer back to jail. As the bailiff led the suspect toward this, Frank looked after them ruefully.

�Means another morning shot,� he said.

The bullpen door clanged behind Maurice Wey.

The next prisoner had been called forward, and it was now too late to rise and leave until his case had been disposed of. It took only a few moments. This man, too, was granted a delay and was led toward the bullpen.

Frank and I rose and started to move toward the aisle next to the wall. Just as we reached it, a commotion on the opposite side of the room swung us around.

The bailiff who had been escorting the last prisoner to the bullpen sat on the floor. The bullpen door hung wide open, and all ten prisoners were rushing out into the courtroom. Apparently they had made a concerted rush at the door the moment the bailiff unlocked it.

Instantly the courtroom became a madhouse. Three prisoners jumped up on counsel tables and looked around wildly for the nearest exits. Bailiffs, lawyers, and spectators grabbed at them, got in each other�s way, and converted the whole front of the courtroom into a free-for-all. Other prisoners headed for side doors, found them locked, and tried to battle their way back through the crowd. Struggles simultaneously broke out all over the room.

I spotted Maury Wey coolly trotting up the center aisle toward the main door, stiff-arming people out of the way with the expertness of a broken-field runner.

Because of their proximity to prisoners, courtroom bailiffs aren�t armed. And although numerous officers besides Frank and me were armed, none dared fire into that milling crowd.

Shoving through the disorganized spectators was like running through glue. Maury Wey had disappeared through the main door before we were halfway to it. By the time we reached the hallway, we could hear his feet clattering on the stairs a full floor below us.

A glance at the elevator indicators showed no cars within three floors of the eighth floor. There was nothing to do but take the same route down that the suspect had. We plunged down the stairway, three steps at a time, just as a whole horde of other officers and bailiffs burst from the courtroom in pursuit.

At the seventh-floor landing we shot past two girls who were flattened against the wall with startled expressions on their faces. At the next landing a dazed lawyer sat spraddle-legged with an open briefcase in his lap and papers from it spilled all around him. We leaped over his legs and sped on.

We were both panting by the time we reached the fourth floor, but we didn�t let it slow us down. The rapid clatter of footsteps below us was becoming fainter by the moment. The suspect was steadily increasing his lead. He must have been an expert stair-runner, because we weren�t doing any dallying. By the time we reached the main floor, we had left the horde following us two floors above.

Both of us were winded when we burst out of the Spring Street entrance with drawn guns. We halted, gasping for breath, and looked hurriedly around in all directions.

There was no sign of the suspect.

Moments later a dozen officers and bailiffs swarmed out of the building behind us. They came to a halt in a ring around us, panting heavily and eyeing us questioningly.

I said to Frank, �Start this bunch questioning every pedestrian on the street to find out which way he ran. I�ll get it on the air.�

I went back inside to the nearest phone and called Communications.

During the following week the gang struck four more times, twice in the northern and twice in the southern part of the state. In both northern jobs the robbery team was identified as Harvey Daniels and Edward Saltenson. One of the southern jobs was pulled by men answering the descriptions of Big Julie and Maury Wey, the other by men positively identified as Wey and Harry Strite. Apparently the individual teams of the gang had switched areas of operation.

Aggregate take from the four jobs was $37,000. None of them occurred in Los Angeles.

On May 22nd a brazen daylight robbery of an armored payroll truck was made; the take was $75,000. All five members of the gang participated. Then they dropped from sight, leaving no leads.

Friday, May 23rd, when we returned from lunch, Frank and I found a notice in the message book to report to Chief Brown�s office. Two men were with the chief when we got there. One was a smooth, well-dressed man of middle age. The other was a small, olive-skinned man with coal-black hair and piercing black eyes. He was faultlessly dressed in a blue serge suit, white shirt, and conservatively dark tie.

Chief Brown introduced the larger man as Thomas Henderson of the F.B.I., and the dark man as Senor Jos� Martinez.

After a polite exchange of greetings, F.B.I. man Henderson said in an easy voice, �Senor Martinez is with the Honduran Embassy, gentlemen. We just flew in from Washington.�

�British Honduras?� I asked Martinez.

He flashed white teeth in a rueful smile. �No, Senor. Jus� Honduras. My country is so small, many Americans do not even know there is a plain Honduras. They have hear of British Honduras, and they think we are that, too.�

�Can�t understand that, sir,� Frank said. �You�ve got five times the area of British Honduras and twenty times the population.�

We looked at Frank with varying expressions. The chief�s and mine were surprised. Thomas Henderson�s was merely politely interested. Senor Jos� Martinez�s was delighted.

�You know my country, Senor?� he asked.

�Never had the pleasure of visiting it,� Frank said. �Know a little about it. Suppose you live in Tegucigalpa, if you�re in government service?�

�In your Washington, D.C., jus� now, Senor. At home in Tegucigalpa, of course. Though the city of my birth was Amapala.�

�Uh-huh,� Frank said. �Down south, on the Pacific Coast.�

Henderson smoothly broke up what was promising to become an old-home-week reunion by interjecting, �Senor Martinez and I are interested in that letter your chief sent us, Lieutenant Friday. The one from a man named Harry Strite.�

�Yes, sir,� I said, and glanced at the chief.

�Mr. Henderson and Senor Martinez think it may be a lead to a problem concerning both our governments,� Chief Brown said. �But they can explain it better than I.�

Senor Martinez obviously was not yet ready to tear himself away from Frank. But he had a diplomat�s politeness. With reluctance he wrenched his mind to business.

�As you gentlemen may know,� he said, �there is at the moment a serious threat of revolution in my country.�

I, for one, didn�t know it. While I wasn�t guilty of being one of the �many� Americans whom the Honduran thought confused his country with British Honduras, about all I knew of it was its name and general location on the map. If a possible revolution had been mentioned in the news, I�d missed it.

Apparently this was one item Frank wasn�t up on, either. He said, �Hadn�t heard about that, sir.�

�As a matter of fact, the threat has been with us for some years,� Martinez went on. �But until recently it was only � how do you say?�� to be taken with a grain of salt.�

�Senor Martinez means it wasn�t considered a serious threat,� Henderson interpreted.

�Exactly,� the Honduran agreed. �The leader is a notorious bandit chief of the name Diego Lopez. An illiterate man, half-Indian, who rules a ragged band of outlaws that calls itself an army. He has a mountain stronghold near the Nicaraguan border. For years Lopez has been calling himself �The Liberator,� and promising to deliver the people from oppression.� He drew his small frame erect and snorted indignantly. �Oppression, indeed! We are a democratic republic. Our constitution guarantees as many liberties as yours of the United States. It is Lopez who wishes to become the oppressor, by overthrowing the legal government and making of himself a dictator.�

Frank said, �So far, it�s been just talk on this Lopez�s part, huh?�

�Exactly,� Martinez said. �He had not a sufficiency of arms to create real trouble. He had barely enough to defend his mountain stronghold against army attack. You will understand how little that was when I tell you a few rifles could hold any of those volcanic passes against any force. The place is a natural fortress. But certainly he never before possessed sufficient arms to attempt a coup.�

I said, �And now he has them, sir?�

�Not quite enough, yet. But our agents report that more come all the time, smuggled across the Nicaraguan border. American-made arms. Springfield rifles, machine guns, grenades, even some small obsolete artillery pieces. It is also rumored that a trained American army officer, a man of military genius, is to arrive with the last shipment of arms. And this man is to general the coup.�

I looked at Frank. He frowned and scratched an ear. I said to Martinez, �You believe the plans described in that letter may explain where the guns are coming from?�

Henderson answered the question. �We�ve pretty well established that the actual source of arms is a notorious international gunrunner named Henri DuBois. Maintains secret agents in half the ports of the world, including New York City and San Francisco. Until your letter came to us, we hadn�t the slightest lead on the source of the money that paid for the arms. Except an assumption that the so-called ex-army-officer-military-genius probably either furnished it or raised it.�

�Big Julie Martin never had any military training,� I said.

Frank said, �Year of R.O.T.C., Joe. He went to U.C.L.A., remember?�

I looked at him, then said thoughtfully, �Yeah. And he�s quite a snow artist. Don�t doubt he could convince an illiterate mountain bandit that he was a military genius. Only question is, how�d he ever get in contact with Lopez?�

�That�s easy,� the F.B.I. man said. �Diego Lopez was in this country for two weeks last November. Was this Martin man in prison then?�

I shook my head. �He took a fall for carrying in December.�

�Well, the Honduran Embassy asked us to keep an eye on him to see what he was up to. Seemed to be just a vacation trip. But one thing ties him in with the letter from Strite.�

�What?� I asked.

�He spent the whole two weeks in Los Angeles.�

We continued to talk with Martinez and Henderson for some time. Chief Brown promised that when and if Big Julie and his gang were apprehended, the F.B.I. would be informed immediately and the suspects would be made available for questioning. Henderson also asked that he be informed of any exceptionally large scores the gang made, since if the gang actually was purchasing the guns, such scores would probably immediately precede gun shipments.

�Gunrunning is strictly a cash business,� Henderson said. �DuBois won�t be making any shipments without cash in hand.�

�They�ve taken over a hundred thousand in the past week,� I told him.

�Yeah,� he said. �I�ve been following the papers. We�ll be on the lookout for a shipment in the near future.�

When we finally left the chief�s office and started back toward Robbery, Frank said, �Think Big Julie really is the guy they want, Joe?�

�Figures,� I said. �Sure sounds like what Strite described in his letter.�

�But the letter said Big Julie meant to be boss of the country. From what Martinez said, this fellow Lopez means to be the dictator.�

�If Julie could snow him enough to let him general the revolt,� I told him, �he probably figures he can snow him out of the top spot, too.�

�Or maybe plans to bump him at the right moment,� Frank said.

�Yeah. Incidentally, how you happen to be so up on Honduras?�

�Television,� Frank said.

�Huh?�

�Last Tuesday, on �The $64,000 Question.� Had on an expert on Central America. Asked him a half dozen questions about Honduras and British Honduras, and he answered every one right.�

The following morning when I checked in I found Frank frowningly examining the wall map. There were now six pins in it.

��Morning, Joe,� Frank said. �You know, I don�t think that May twenty-second pin ought to be in there.�

�No?� I said.

�Throws the whole thing off. Other five are all supermarkets. Last one�s a payroll truck.�

�Uh-huh.�

�I mean, they had to hit the markets where the pins are. Supermarkets don�t move around. But that truck had a four-and-a-half-mile run from the bank to the plant.�

�Yeah.�

�They could have hit it anywhere. Pin could be quite a distance from where it is if they�d hit it at another spot.�

�Bothers you, huh?� I asked.

�Yeah, it does.�

�Know what I�d do, Frank?�

�What?�

I said, �I�d take it out.�

Frank looked at me with pursed lips, then shrugged and removed the pin. He frowned at the map again.

�Know what, Joe?�

�What?�

�Doesn�t help a bit. Thing still doesn�t show any directional trend.�

The men crouched by the bushes on either side of the porch were in uniform. They both turned to look at us.

I said in a low voice, �Lieutenant Friday and Sergeant Smith,� as we mounted the steps.

All the shades in the house were drawn, but we could see light behind the ones in the front-room windows. The two windows to the left of the door, presumably to a dining room or bedroom, were dark. Frank stood to one side of the door, his hand on his gun, while I pressed the bell.

Nothing happened immediately. Then, from the corner of my vision, I saw the edge of one of the front-room shades move back. I turned my head and looked squarely at the window. The shade fell back in place.

I pressed the bell again. This time a porch light went on over our heads. Then the door opened, but only as far as its burglar chain would permit. The plump face of a woman in her twenties peered out.

�What is it?� she asked in a fearful voice.

�Miss Martha Gerrold?� I inquired.

�Yes.�

�Police officers, ma�am.� I held my ID up to the crack. �May we come in, please?�

�Why?� she asked in panic. �What do you want?�

�To come in,� I said. �Go ahead, ma�am. Open the door.�

I heard a low whisper behind her, but was unable to tell whether it was a man�s or woman�s voice. Martha Gerrold said in a voice that cracked with fear, �You got a warrant?�

Her manner dispelled all doubt in my mind about Tony Ramirez�s hunch. If the woman wasn�t harboring her old boyfriend, she had someone or something in the house she didn�t want the police to see.

�No, ma�am,� I said. �But the place is surrounded by police. It won�t do you any good to insist on a warrant. Just delay matters. Nobody in there could get out while we�re getting one.�

She stood staring at me mutely, her face pinched with fright. There was a motion behind her, a hand reached out and shoved the door shut. A spring lock clicked.

I stepped aside fast just as a pistol sounded three times from inside. Splinters ripped from the door as the bullets gouged through it at belt-buckle height.

I took two steps along the porch, drew my gun, and smashed a hole in the upper pane of the nearest front-room window. As I reached through it to unlatch it and throw up the window, I heard glass smash from the opposite end of the porch. Frank was working on one of the windows there.

I had the window up when a gun sounded twice more from inside. Two little holes appeared in the drawn shade. I could feel their heat; they had missed my throat by an inch.

As I flattened myself against the front of the house, another gun sounded from the room Frank was trying to enter. I glanced toward him and saw that he, too, was flattening himself against the clapboard.

One of the officers crouched in front of the porch said, �You get hit, Lieutenant?�

�We�re okay,� I said.

I motioned to Frank, and we made a dash for the protection of my Ford. All lights in the house and the porch light went out just as we crouched behind it.

Sergeant Walker was on one knee behind the car, resting the butt of his tear-gas gun on the asphalt.

I held out my hand for the gun and said, �Better bring your car up and get some light on the subject.�

He faded away. Up and down the street doors began to open and people began to gather on porches. There was no sign of life from the dark house in front of us.

I called to the officers still crouched by the bushes, �Better move aside, men. We�re going to light things up.�

We could see them drift off to either side.

Walker drove his F car up behind mine, and his searchlight suddenly bathed the front of the house in a bright glow. One of the drawn shades started to move. Frank put a bullet through it, and it stopped moving.

I leaned against the front fender of the Ford, steadied my elbows on its hood, and aimed the tear-gas gun at the broken front-room window. I fired, and the window shade disappeared as the bomb carried it right along into the room with it.

I put another into the front room, then sent two more through the window Frank had broken. I handed the gun back to Walker, and we all stood waiting. A mist of tear gas began to drift from both windows.

�Probably shut themselves in the kitchen now,� Frank said.

�Do �em a lot of good,� Walker said. �The boys back there got a tear-gas gun, too.�

Even as he spoke, we heard the distinctive burp of a tear-gas gun from behind the house as the men there followed our lead.

The woman was the first one out. The front door flew open, and she stumbled down the porch steps into the yard, where she fell to her knees, choking and sobbing, her hands to her face. A cloud of gas followed her out the door.

A tall, thin man came out next, his hands raised high over his head. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he was coughing uncontrollably.

Frank and I started to move forward with drawn guns, then stopped when a third figure appeared, a squat, thick-set man with a squashed-in nose. He reeled down the porch steps, tripped, and fell full-length on the lawn. He pushed himself to a sitting position and started to cry.

Frank and I moved forward again. Walker�s spotlight lighted the scene brilliantly, and we could see all three faces clearly.

�Well, well,� Frank said. �A double-header. Looks like we netted both Salty and Harvey Daniels.�

Martha Gerrold was a cooperative witness. She answered all questions fully, holding nothing back. The trouble was that she knew very little aside from what she had already told us. She believed most of the robbery loot to date had already been spent for arms to be used in the planned revolution. Recently she had heard talk of another arms shipment going out. She knew no details, but had caught mention of a ship named the Gloria May.

She knew nothing of the gang�s future robbery plans. Nor had she any idea when the other members of the gang next planned to use her home as a hideout. She said she never got advance notice. The various members moved in and out as they pleased, without consulting her.

We took the two male suspects down to the Felony Section and booked them on suspicion of armed robbery. In view of the woman�s statement that she had acted under duress, it was decided not to charge her with harboring wanted criminals. She was booked as a material witness and sent to the Women�s Jail.

We arranged for stakeouts on the Lake Street house in case any other members of the gang showed. I phoned the local office of the F.B.I. and informed them that we now had definite information that Big Julie and his gang were behind the planned Honduran coup. I also gave them the tip about the Gloria May.

After getting off a teletype to the Attorney General�s office informing them of the suspects� apprehension, Frank and I closed up shop for the night.

On Thursday, May 29th, the district attorney issued complaints against Edward Saltenson and Harvey Daniels. The following day their answer was received in the private chambers of the judge of Division 34 of the Municipal Court. They were bound over for the charges filed against them and transferred to the County Jail in lieu of the posting of $50,000 bond each. Because of Harvey Daniels� boast that Big Julie would break them out of jail, they were placed under twenty-four-hour security guard.

The cooperation of the press was requested in withholding the news of the suspects� arrests, in the hope that other members of the gang might appear at the Lake Street hideout.

The maneuver didn�t work. On Monday, June 2nd, witnesses in the three supermarket robberies and the payroll robbery began to receive telephone threats warning them not to testify against the suspects. It was obvious that Big Julie had somehow learned of his confederates� arrest.

The news ban was lifted and the story appeared in papers throughout the state. Police guards were assigned to all witnesses who had been threatened.

No more threats were reported, and there was no other activity by remaining members of the gang. They seemed to be marking time. A week passed.

On Tuesday, June 10th, I received another night call at my apartment, this time at 11:40 p.m. It got me out of bed.

�Hello,� I said sleepily.

�Joe,� Sergeant Tom Anderson�s voice said. �If you were asleep, get your pants on and get ready to roll.�

�What�s up?� I asked, coming fully awake.

�Big Julie fell off the wagon.�

�Huh?� I said.

�He and Strite just wrecked Pinto�s Tavern on Third. Tore the joint apart. Put the bartender in the hospital and banged up three other customers badly enough to require medical attention!�

�Got a line on them?�

�Have we!� Andy said gleefully. �An informer was in the place. Guy named Smoky Fallon.�

�Yeah,� I said. �He�s a contact of mine.�

�Well, he didn�t know how to reach you at night, so he called us. He tailed them from Pinto�s. Said he wouldn�t have dared but they were so drunk he didn�t think they�d notice. Got close enough to hear them discussing plans for the rest of the night.�

�Uh-huh.�

�They plan to spend it in a cat house on Fifth. Smoky knew the place they were talking about. Place called Belle�s. He gave us the address.�

�Got it staked out?�

�In the process. Smoky�s phone call wasn�t ten minutes ago. By the time I hang up, the whole area ought to be sewed up tight.�

�What�s the address?� I asked.

He gave it to me, and designated a spot a half block away for us to meet.

�How about phoning Frank, too,� I said. �I�m gonna be rushed for time.�

�Will do,� Andy said. �Incidentally, Smoky�s tip clears up another case, too.�

�What�s that?�

�Vice Squad didn�t know the place was a cat house.�

I grabbed the redhead�s shoulder and spun her across the hall toward the front-room door. Frank and the blonde were just coming through it. Frank neatly sidestepped, and the redhead crashed into the blonde. They fell into the front room in a tangle of arms and legs just as Strite�s pistol went off.

I had started to throw myself sidewise and draw the instant after I�d propelled the girl out of the line of fire. Strite�s bullet cut air where I had been a microsecond before. Then I was drawing and squeezing the trigger even as I brought the gun up.

My shot was echoed by one from Frank�s gun. The suspect let out a yell as a slug caught his left arm. I could see the round, dark spot appear against the white of his shirt sleeve just above the elbow.

Strite reeled backward and out of sight. We could hear him running down the hall, yelling, �Julie!� I started up the stairs three at a time with Frank right behind me. I reached the top just as Big Julie burst from a room at the end of the hall. He was in his undershirt and his hair hung over his forehead in disorder. He didn�t look like a scholar tonight. His face was bloated with drink, and his expression was the same as he wore in his mugg shot. He looked like a wild animal at bay. A .45 automatic was gripped in one huge fist.

Harry Strite sped right past him into the room Big Julie had just left. Julie leveled his gun at me and was squeezing the trigger when I fired. He staggered backward just as his gun went off, and the bullet went high over my head. I fired again, he gave a grunt and reeled out of sight into an alcove in the wall directly opposite the room where Strite was.

Frank was alongside me then, and we crouched side by side, our guns ready. There was no protection in the hall, but neither suspect could attempt a shot without exposing himself to our fire.

A door alongside of us cracked open, and the terrified eyes of a girl looked out. Undoubtedly the busy Flora, interrupted in the middle of her date. When she saw our guns, the door slammed and a bolt shot home.

I inched forward until I could see at an angle into the alcove where Big Julie was. My view was too restricted to see him, but I could make out that the alcove was a stairway to the roof.

I called, �Give it up and throw out your guns. You haven�t got a chance.�

The gunfire had alerted the outside stakeouts. The hallway suddenly grew brighter as spotlights from both the street in front and the alley out back hit windows at either end of the hall. Simultaneously there was a pounding on the door downstairs.

Harry Strite�s scared voice called, �Julie, I�m hit! We better give it up.�

�So am I, you chicken little runt,� Julie growled back from across the hall. �We�ll fight it out.�

�I can�t, Julie! I�m bleeding.� The little man�s voice contained an edge of panic. �Hey, Friday! I�m coming out. Don�t shoot!�

Julie yelled, �You stay where you are, chicken! You�re not running out on me.�

Strite made no reply. His gun skidded out into the hall, hit the mop board, and caromed toward us. Then he stepped through the door, his right arm held high and his bloodstained left arm dangling limply at his side.

�Why, you double-crossing little punk!� Big Julie�s thick voice said.

Strite glanced toward the roof stairs, and his expression grew terrified. �Don�t, Julie!� he whispered. �Don�t!�

Two thunderous shots sounded, and the little man slammed backward against the wall. His raised arm dropped to press against his stomach, and he slid slowly to a sitting position, his gaze fixed in shock and disbelief on the man he had regarded as a demigod.

The shots were still echoing when I ran forward and snapped a quick shot into the stairway alcove. It missed, and I jerked back out of the line of fire just as Julie fired back.

Momentarily we were stalemated, neither of us willing to risk exposure in order to get in another shot.

Then Frank and I heard the rasp of hinges as Julie heaved open the door to the roof. Frank and I both raced forward and leveled our guns just as the big man started to turn around again.

He never made it. Both of us fired point-blank while he was still half facing away from us. He tried to bring his gun around the rest of the way, emitted a deep groan, and tumbled head first down the stairs to land at our feet.

I kicked his dropped gun aside and knelt over him.

There was a clattering on the stairs, and Andy and LaMonica suddenly appeared in the upper hallway with drawn guns. They halted and lowered the guns when they saw Frank putting his away. I rose and put mine away, too.

�He�s dead,� I announced generally.

Frank was bending over Harry Strite, who still sat on the hall floor with his back against the wall, his good hand clutched to his stomach. Red was seeping between his fingers.

Frank said, �He�s still alive. But I think he�s dying.�

I leaned over the wounded man, too. I said, �Can you hear me, Harry?�

He looked at me dully. �Julie did it. I never thought��

�You haven�t got much time, Harry,� I interrupted. �Want to go out clean?�

�We shouldn�t of come in,� the dying man whispered. �We shouldn�t of left Whittier.�

�Where in Whittier, Harry?� I said. �Is that where Maury Wey is?�

I seemed to reach him finally. His eyes momentarily cleared, and he looked directly into my face. �Arnold Watson�s on Firebird Avenue,� he said. �Be careful you don�t hurt the kids.�

His head drooped to his chest.

�He�s dead,� Frank said, and rose to his feet.

9:17 a.m. We arrived at Whittier. The area around the staked-out house was blocked off by police and sheriff�s deputy cars. We were stopped at one of the roadblocks. When we explained who we were, the officer who stopped us got on his radio. Shortly afterward we were joined by a Lieutenant Goss, who was in charge of the stakeout.

Lieutenant Goss said that he had forty men deployed around the house.

�In daylight?� I said. �How are they keeping out of sight?�

�We asked the neighbors� cooperation,� he said. �Some of them are in houses on either side of the Watson house, some in houses across the street. The rest are hidden in underbrush behind the house.�

�I see,� I said.

�Wey hasn�t tumbled yet. We�re afraid if he does, he�ll try to use the woman and children as hostages.�

�Who are they?� I asked.

�Mrs. Watson and her two kids. Seven-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl. Watson isn�t there. We�ve got him in custody.�

�Oh?�

�He started to drive to work at eight thirty. One of the roadblocks stopped his car.�

�What�s he say?�

�That he�s been hiding out the gang under duress. Maury Wey�s a distant cousin. Says the gang just moved in and told him if he went to the police, they�d take it out on his family.�

�I mean, what�s he say about the situation inside?�

Lieutenant Goss shrugged. �Says Wey�s capable of anything. Begged us to wait until Wey comes outside before we make a move. Which is impossible.�

�Why?�

�Watson says Wey hasn�t stepped out of the house in a week.�

Frank said, �Just what is it you want with us, Lieutenant?�

�You and Friday know this man. Hoped you�d be able to think of a method of smoking him out.�

I said, �I was thinking on the way down. Willing to take a chance?�

�On what?� Goss asked.

�Letting him know he�s surrounded. He�s bound to tumble eventually anyway.�

�You mean deliberately let him know?�

�I thought about phoning the Watson house and talking to him,� I said.

�Huh?�

�Wey has enough guts to shoot it out,� I said. �But he�s no hothead. Doubt that he has an emotion in him. If he thought he didn�t have a prayer, I think he�d weigh the odds. There�s a good chance he�d give up without a struggle.�

Lieutenant Goss wasn�t enthusiastic about the idea, but he accepted it because he didn�t have a better one. We decided the best place to phone from was one of the Watsons� next-door neighbors.

We reached the house next to the Watson place by climbing several backyard fences and finally entering a side door that could not be seen from the Watson home. Frank and I looked out a window at the place next door before I phoned. It was a neat, one-story frame house with an immaculately kept lawn.

Goss looked up the number for me, and I dialed it.

The phone rang three times before a pleasant feminine voice said, �Hello?�

�Mrs. Watson?� I asked.

�Yes.�

�This is Lieutenant Friday of the Los Angeles Police. Will you tell Maury Wey I�d like to speak to him?�

There was a gasp, then silence.

�Mrs. Watson?� I said.

The silence continued. The line wasn�t dead, but there was no sound whatever. I guessed that the woman had clamped a hand over the mouthpiece and was relaying what I had said.

A full minute passed before a cautious male voice said, �Yeah?�

�Joe Friday, Maury,� I said pleasantly. �How are you?�

�What�s the caper?� he demanded.

�I�m right next door, Maury. With ten other officers. There�s ten more in the house on your other side, ten in houses across the street, and ten in the underbrush out back. All armed with riot guns, machine guns, and carbines. Plus a little tear gas.�

After a considerable silence he asked coldly, �Think you can take me?�

�Don�t think you�ll make us,� I said. �After you think it over. I think you�re smart enough to weigh the odds. If you try to shoot it out, you�re dead. If you give up, there�s always another chance. How about it?�

�You must be nuts, Friday.�

�Consider it,� I suggested. �Which would be easier � breaking past fifty guns or making a jailbreak?�

There was another long silence. Then he said, �Keep talking.�

�You�ve made it out of maximum security twice, Maury. There�s always the chance you could make it again. But you�ll never get past this setup.�

After another silence, he said, �What�s your number there, Friday?�

I read it off the phone dial.

�Give me ten minutes,� he said. �I�ll either phone you back or come out shooting.�

Only eight minutes passed before the phone rang. I picked it up and said, �Friday speaking.�

I heard a long sigh. �For a cop, you�re a convincing guy, Friday.�

�Yeah?� I said.

�You win. I�ll give you five minutes to spread the word not to shoot. Then I�ll throw out my gun and come out the front door backward.�

�Okay,� I said.

�Lieutenant,� he said, in a suddenly diffident voice.

�Yeah?�

�You said you thought I was smart. Was that bull, or do you really mean it?�

�You�re being smart about this,� I said.

�You know what I mean. In general.�

�You want me to be frank?� I asked.

�Sure, Lieutenant.�

I said, �Smart people don�t end up in prison.�

ADW � assault with deadly weapon.

APB � all Points Bulletin.

Business Dispute � Argument between customer and merchant.

1.1. � Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation.

Code 3 � Emergency (red light and siren).

Code 2 � Urgent (no red light or siren).

Corner Pocket � Deputy Chief of Detectives Thad Brown.

M.V.�� Department of Motor Vehicles.

DOA � dead on arrival.

DR Number � Division of Records number (case number).

F Car � Felony car.

Hard Time � Time served for a felony conviction.

Hot Shot � Telephone connected with the Communications Division where Emergency calls are relayed to proper division.

ID � Police officer�s identification.

The Joint � San Quentin penitentiary.

KMA367 � call letters of Metropolitan Area Station.

Make � Identification of suspect or car.

MO � Modus operandi (method of operation).

R & I � Records and Identification Section.

Stakeout � Fixed post of surveillance, either in anticipation of a crime or in anticipation of arrival of person who has committed a crime.

Stand-Up Muggs � Pictures showing full length of suspect. Stat�s Office � Statistics Section.

211 � Radio code for robbery.

White-collar Criminal � Bunco artist, forger, counterfeiter, or other criminal who specializes in nonviolent crimes.

Wma � white, Male, American.