10 Short Novels Magazine — page 59: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

It was gone, but one still remained in the left fender well. “Get that—” But the Chinatown squad is hardened to artful dodges. Flint, now that his in- vestigation had blown up, would have to start all over again, and he dared not = continue the argument. The next instant justified him. A blot of whiteness appeared from a second story window; then a pale, slender jewel- sparkling hand swept out. A burning cigarette lighter landed in the pool of gasoline collecting under the crushed tank. A roar, a fierce wave of heat, and a surging gust of flame enveloped Hawk- nose’s car. Flint cursed wrathfully as the police machine pulled out. Before that blaze was extinguished, not a scrap of evidence would be left. T police headquarters Flint identi- fied himself. “Who is that hook-nosed guy, and will he live?” he asked. “Henrique Robles, according to his driver’s license,” answered the sergeant. Then, after a moment on the telephone, he added: “They tell me he coughed him- self to death on the operating table. The rest were cold meat before we got to - hadquarters. Three highbinders. Yut Lee, of course, claims he never saw the Chink that went out to get the spare tires—or the others that tried to beat him to it. Which is pure baloney. If there’s not a tong war before morning, my name’s not McDermott!” “Worse than a tong war,” grumbled Flint. “Damn sight worse! Anyone big enough to crowd the other brands off the market is not going to confine himself to opium. “Hitting the pipe is comparatively harmless, especially for a Chink. The damnable thing about it is that this Sil- ver Dragon won’t stick to smoking opium. Deadlier drugs will follow. The kind that get at the white population.” McDermott’s ruddy face lengthened. Flint’s view had made a murderous tong war seem trivial in comparison. While waiting for news of the exotic girl he had glimpsed at Yut Lee’s place— the one he was certain had ignited Ro- bles’ car—F lint proposed inspecting the wreck. They went. “Hawk-nose” Robles’ ma- chine was in the pound. The blackatiea remains mocked Flint. The blast of the half emptied tank had sprayed it with blazing gasoline. He drew a jackknife and moved toward the still smoking wreck. The hijackers had been interrupted be- fore they could break the lock of the tire in the left fender well. A slash, and the . blistered rubber yielded. Flint’s hunch was confirmed when he tore into the tube: it was filled with five-tael tins of Silver Dragon, each held in place with a rubber band vulcanized to the interior. But that confirmation was thus far useless. The serial number had long been filed from the engine block, and no body num- ber plate remained. The gutted interior was a total blank. Flame and the fire de- partment had destroyed the ownership papers on the steering column. “At the speed this guy was driving,” said McDermott eyeing the insect-caked radiator, “he’d have to gas up about every hundred seventy-five miles. Watch towns that distance—” “This is better!” interrupted Flint, abruptly checking his examination of the interior of the car. He pried a small metal ° plate from above the right corner of the windshield. “Somebody slipped!” It- was a greasing rack ‘“tickler’’ with blank spaces for the speedometer reading at which oil should be changed and the chassis relubricated. The top of the plate was marked in red enamel Timothy’s Service Station—Y uma. “Bullseye!” exclaimed McDermott. “That short circuits the guesswork. Now we know where to inquire. First stop for gas, Fresno, hundred and eighty miles south, Then the all-night filling station at Mojave, three fifty-five. And Yuma—” “Tg headquarters,” Flint broke in. “Close to the Mexican border. This tickler’s never been marked. Probably not even Robles knew it was there. He’d grease up each round trip. Routine.” Flint then briskly ordered: “Get some mechanics to work on this heap. Fix it up with a used body the same color. I’m driving it south.” “Hell!” muttered McDermott. “You can’t get away with impersonating Hawk- nose Robles! And the big shot—the Sil- ver Dragon—ten to one knows by this time what’s happened.” Flint’s mouth relaxed — to a smile. “McDermott, if it’s got you guess- ing, this gag may catch some one else off ECOMEE