5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 103: what you’re looking at

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

THE LITTLE SLEEP “Inspector,” I said, “there’s something up here you ought to know about.” Then the pink glare of the neon cat lighted up the place, and we saw car 90 in the very same spot, dark, its left door wide open. “He’s asleep again!” Pratt bellowed. I stopped, without nudging car 90 this time. The inspector was out and run- ning before I could cut the ignition. But car 90 was empty. The inspector peered around, stepped toward the front of the car. We both saw Flannigan at the same time. He’d been crouching beside his front bumper. He rose from his crouch and dived, hitting Pratt below the knees, and they rolled in the dust together. A SHOT rang out and pinged against . the fender of Flannigan’s car. I hit the deck beside the others. Pratt was the first to move. He sat up, dusted off his coat and bellowed, “By heaven, what’s going on here r “It’s the cat burglar, sir,” Flannigan answered. “I’m sorry I knocked you down, sir, but I saw him aiming and I wasn’t sure I could hit him at this dis- tance.” Pratt said, “The cat burglar?” “Sure,” Flannigan replied. “He finally walked into our trap. You see, sir, we bottle up the district when he hits, and we knew that sooner or later, he’d have to come down through the cemetery.” Every time? Well, we'd done it this time, anyway. Again Pratt said, “The cat burglar?” Then he got up. “What are you waiting for?” he roared. “He’s going to get away!” He walked right into the cemetery, standing up straight. “You!” he yelled. “You!” He really roared. The ground shook. The neon cat turned green. “You!” he hollered again. “Come out with your hands up, or I’ll go in and get you!” Nobody answered. Nobody moved ahead of us. The inspector walked on. “Stand up and surrender!” he yelled. Flannigan and I followed him. What else could we do? Then, just as I was expecting another 103 shot, we saw a shadow behind a tomb- stone, hands raised. “Don’t shoot!” it yelled. “Don't shoot! I quit!” Sure and we slapped the handeurts on him mighty fast. While Flannigan frisked him, I looked around. About ten yards off I found his gun, where he had thrown it, and ten yards further, a bill- fold. It was empty of money but it still held the personal papers of the man who’d been burglarized on 23rd Street. That was it. I showed the wallet to the inspector; he looked at the papers and then gave it to Flannigan. “He’s your prisoner, Officer,” Pratt said. “Take him in.” We drove back to headquarters, and Pratt didn’t say a word. Nary a word. ‘He sat in the back and tore up his notes and puffed out his smoke screen. Sure, it came through finally, about a week later while I-was wondering why it took so long. Flannigan, Joseph, Pa- trolman, promoted to detective and transferred to headquarters. I was still feeling mighty proud of the way things had worked out when Sally dropped in a couple of days later. “And when’s the happy hour?” I asked her. : “Next month,” she said. “Isn’t that wonderful? It was a dirty trick I had to play on Daddy but he deserved it.” I was sniffing a rat again. “What do you mean, you had to play ?” “I just reminded him that a certain blond witness might forget her testi- mony against the safecrackers if he didn’t come through.” I said, “No! The fat slob! After we caught the cat burglar and everything, he still held out!” Sally patted me on the back. “Mur- phy,” she said, “you did grand. Flanni- gan told us ali about it, and you were wonderful. But that wasn’t any cat bur- glar you caught. . “It wasn’t ?” “No, it wasn’t, Murphy. They took his fingerprints and they found out he’d been released from the pen the day be- fore you caught him. He wasn’t the cat burglar.” So he wasn’t. They had a fine wedding, anyway. @ @ ®@ ( CO) nn) 6) Oy QO) ©) (C(O) mM