5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 101: what you’re looking at

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

THE LITTLE SLEEP watch your step. He’s a smart one, this Pratt. He was, too. He marched into the sta- tion, grabbed the complaint book and - spent a half hour making notes. Then he got back into the car and gave me an address on Estes Avenue. On the way, he lit a cigar and set up a smoke screen. Then he said, “Mur- phy.” “Ves, sir.” “You’ve been at headquarters a couple years, haven’t you?” Sure I had, and he knew it. What now? ~ “You know the newspaper boys pretty well, don’t you? Murphy, he’s on to you. The pig- head. “Newspaper publicity isn’t good for the department, Murphy,” he said. “Sometimes it blows up in your face.” “Yes, sir.” “People read about cat burglars and they think every shadow they see is one.” - “Yes, sir,” I said. The place on Estes Avenue was a brick home. Pratt got out and said, “Come with me, Sergeant.” Some fellow who looked like a book- keeper answer the doorbell. “Are you the man who reported a cat burglar two weeks ago?” Pratt asked. “Am I what?” ae you report a burglary two weeks ago?” The man yelled, “Hey, Martha!” and a woman came out, her hair in curlers. “Did you report that bum who stole my pants?” the man asked. She stared at the inspector and then at me and she gaid, “I certainly did! I certainly did! I reported it the very next week and I haven’t heard a word since! Not one word!” “Lady,” the inspector asked, a wee bit louder, “did you say this man was a cat burglar?” She stared at him again. “A what? A cat burglar? What kind of a joke is this?” “Where were the trousers stolen from?” Pratt asked. His face was turn- ing red. “Where were they? Why, right in the back yard, that’s where! Right on the line where I hung them out to air. I told 101 you that when I called. What’s the matter with you policemen? Don’t you ever remember anything? Can’t you—” “Just a minute, lady!” the Inspector cut in. She stopped. “Thank you,” he said. Then he walked off the porch, and we got into the car and drove away. I wasn’t very happy. Sure and now I knew what that slob was up to. He was tracing every one of those cat burglar reports. Next was an address on Ridge Park Road. ... Good-by, Flannigan. Good-by, Murphy. ... This place was one of those ranch houses, all on one floor. A kid could hoist himself in through the windows. “Cat burglar!” the inspector mut- tered. “Cat burglar! ... Murphy!” “Yes, sir.” This time he had a number on 23rd Street. One by one, he was kicking over those complaints O’ ‘Brien had given him. F ALL THE filthy tricks! He was going to bust that kid if he had to spend all the taxpayers’ money, and bust me on top of it. Yeah, me. Almost Lieutenant Mur- phy. Used-to-be Sergeant Murphy. Pa- trolman Murphy tomorrow. The radio squawked. “Code 39! Code ne The announcer gave an address on 3rd. Code 39 means a burglary, and this was only a block from us. “We ought to take that, Inspector,” I said. “We're right on top of it.” Before he could answer, I whipped around and made a right. He said, “Sergeant, you’d better pray this doesn’t have anything to do with a cat burglar.” I swung past an old jalopy parked near we curb, empty but with its engine run- ning. “You hear me, Murphy ?” he yelled. I said, “Yes, sir.” We were the first to reach the ad- dress. A woman was on the porch, look- ing scared. “Officer,” she said, “it was terrible! Horrible! He was right there in the bed- room—” GomiGcbdoo ©) (C(O) mM