5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 102: what you’re looking at

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

102 “Who was?” Pratt asked. “The cat burglar!” she cried. “The ene that was in the paper today! He had my husband’s wallet and—” Over her shoulder I could see the in- spector’s face. It was so red the whole porch glowed. ‘That was no place for Murphy. “May- be he’s still around,” I said. “I'll see.” { jumped off the porch and scoote into the yard. | The cat burglar! Patrolman Murphy, nuts. Convict Murphy before Pratt got through with In the yard, I went over a fence and out to the street again. Sure, the jalop- py was still there, its engine still run- ning. I reached in and cut the ignition and pocketed the keys. He wouldn’t get away in this car, at least. With half a break we’d corner him. So what? What good would it do now, Murphy, boy? Headlights turned a corner ahead of me, and a district car came along. Car 89. I flagged it down and another one came around the same corner—car 88. “What’s this?” I asked the drivers. “Follow the leader?” “We’re answering a Code 39,” one of them replied, “and we've got to use this street. It’s the only way in.” He was right. The bluff runs into the river there, with 23rd Street a dead end at the top of the triangle and the ceme- tery at the bottom. The cemetery ? I was afraid to open my mouth. The cemetery and the cat burglar. And me standing there by his jaloppy. Well, why not. Murphy? You're cooked, anyway. Why not? “Look,” I said to the two drivers, “you go to East River Drive, both of you, and park there, with your blinkers on. Stop all the other district cars you see, ex- cept the lieutenant’s, and park them the same way, along East River Drive. Got it?” “What kind of a gag is this?” the first driver asked. I didn’t have time to explain. “It’s orders.” He hesitated. “I dunno—” Well, Pratt could get away with it, why not Murphy? I pointed to my FIVE DETECTIVE NOVELS MAGAZINE chevrons. “Do you know what these stand for?” “Oka: , sergeant,” he said. “Okay, okay. I STOOD there beside the jaloppy, its 4 keys in my pocket, for maybe five minutes. That was enough, I figured. Then I scooted back to the house that had been burglarized. I hadn’t seen a thing and I hadn’t heard a thing. But the cat burglar’d had a chance to see me and to know he’d better duck out on foot, without his jaloppy. The inspector was still the porch. I picked up the mike in our car. 7 “This is Sergeant Murphy,” I said. “Call Car 90 and tell him to take the same station he had last night. We’re going to catch that cat burglar.” For an instant the dispatcher was quiet. Then he said, “Sergeant Murphy, repeat, please.” So I repeated. “Sergeant Murphy, those orders will have to be—” “Those are Inspector Pratt’s orders,” I said. I hung up the mike and walked away. Even if he didn’t put it out, Flannigan would have heard me. On the porch, Pratt had got all the in- formation he could from the woman and was ready to leave. _ “He got away, sir,” I said. “Not a Pratt glared at me and climbed into the car. We drove over to East River Drive and back toward town. For once, the inspector didn’t ask where I was going. He was busy seribbling in his notebook. After a minute, he said, “Murphy, what’s your badge number?” The slob! He knew it as well as I did, but I told him, anyway. “Attached to headquarters,” he said. “That right ?” I cut into the cemetery lane and doused the lights. The car bounced and swayed. “Murphy!” he yelled. “What—where are you going?” I didn’t answer. ee are you trying to pull? Mur- phy |” $1 They drove off. y. COMmMiIcloooe SJ @ (C(C) mM