5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 100: what you’re looking at

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

100 “Well,” said Flannigan, a was—I was looking for someone, sir.’ “Looking for someone? Who?” The big neon cat flashed on, making everything red. The trees, the cars, even fat Pratt, the very Old Nick him- self in a baggy red uniform. Flannigan sighed. “The cat burglar, “The cat burglar!” Pratt roared. “Who’s the cat burglar?” Well, he’s a—a purse-snatcher, sir, and a second-story worker. That’s why we call him the cat burglar, sir. We al- ways call them cat burglars.” “And where’s the second story around here?” The kid scratched his shoe in the dirt again. “He—TI mean, I just sort of fig- ured he’d come along here, sir.” “Oh, you did? Why?” “Well, he didn’t go anywhere else. I mean we never found him anywhere else, sir. So I sort of thought maybe he’d be around here.” The inspector filled his fat lungs with a fat breath. “Flannigan,” he roared, “you're lying!” The kid looked sick. “I’m going to your station,” Pratt yelled, “and if I find out this cat burglar is phony, you’re washed up. Get that?” “Yes, sir,” said the kid, sort of whis- pering. The inspector got back into our car. “Murphy!” UT I HUNG behind. “Flannigan,” I said, “you better find yourself a cat burglar in a hurry.” | 3 He kicked at the dirt. Then he grinned, a sorry grin. “The desk ser- geant, O’Brien, is my sister’s husband. Maybe I can.” “Murphy!” the 'nspector bellowed. So I got behind the wheel again. “Twenty-First Precinct, Murphy!” I knew the 21st Precinct like I know Pratt’s bellow, but somehow I got lost that night. I missed all the stop lights, and when we finally reached the station- house, I figured the kid had had plenty of time for a telephone call. Pratt walked right into the lieuten- ant’s office, slamming the door behind him, and I eased up to the desk ser- geant’s wicker cage. FIVE DETECTIVE NOVELS MAGAZINE “You get a call from Flannigan?” I asked. The desk sergeant was busy writing but he said, “Yeah. About five minutes ago.” “Can you fix it?” | He’s a pretty good man, O’Brien is. “I done my best. But the lieutenant—” We both stared at the lieutenant’s’ door. It looked just like it had looked when Pratt slammed it. Well, I was into it now. Might as well go all the way. I fished out a nickel and hit the public phone. There I called the press room at headquarters and asked for Frank Easton. “Frankie boy,” I said, “this is Joe Murphy. I want you to be doing a little job for me, Frankie. A nice story about a cat burglar in the Twenty-First Pre- cinct.” Frank didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “What is it, Joe? A gag?” “Would I be giving you a phony tip, Frankie?” “Well, okay, Joe,” he said. “That cat stuff is corny, but I’ll see what I can do. What’s the lowdown?” I told him to call O’Brien in a half hour for particulars. Then I hung up. . Pratt and the lieutenant were in a corner going over the complaint. book. “How about it?” I asked O’Brien.’ He grinned. “The lieutenant hasn’t looked at the book in a month. He was afraid to open his mouth.” “So you got a cat burglar ?” 3 “So we got one,” O’Brien said. | Frank Easton is a good boy. The story was on page three next morning. It’ sounded new, even though the only com- plaints O’ Brien had dug up were two or three weeks old. I read it, lit up my pipe, and felt pretty good. Then Pratt called. “Murphy,” he said, “four o’clock tonight again.” | “It’s Saturday,” I told him. “Four o'clock, Murphy,” he said. “Yes, sir,” I said. Then I said, “You fat slob!” I was careful to put the phone back on the hook before-I said it, though. So I met him at four o’clock. “Twenty-First Precinct, Murphy,” he said as he climbed in. Now what was he after? I smelled that rat again.. Murphy, my boy, CoOnniclooo SJ (CC) im