LINE-UP MURDER 

by NORMAN A. DANIELS 


Jimmy Nolan's revolver killed the man he hoted. But Nolon swore he hedn't fouched 
his gun.


The hospital room spun a little; his legs felt like rubber. But as Detective Jimmy 
Nolan guided the knot of his necktie into place, he grinned in the mirror at the 
whitecoated orderly who stood behind him.

"Who cares," Nolan said, "what the doctors say? Six weeks ago my best friend, 
Sergeant Carey, was murdered and two slugs were pumped into my midriff. Six weeks 
I've been in bed, except for those short walks during the past few days. All that 
time Carey's murderer has gone free. Then, last night, they landed the killer. 
I'm going to the line-up and have a look at him, Gilkin. No combination of doctors 
can stop me. Say--in the top drawer is my service pistol. Let's have it. I've 
carried a roscoe so long I feel undressed when I'm not heeled."

Jimmy Nolan shoved the gun into a well-worn holster on his hip. He drew on his coat 
and grabbed the fedora which still bore a few blood stains from that ghastly night 
six weeks before when bullets whizzed in all directions.

He taxied to police headquarters, paid off the driver and strode into the building. 
There was a crush near the license bureau and Nolan realized that his strength was 
several notches below par when he was jostled about by the motley throng. Then 
Captain Blane of homicide saw him and extended his hand.

"Nolan--I didn't think they'd let you out for days. In fact, when I asked if you 
could appear at the line-up this morning, the doc said no, very firmly. But they're 
getting ready to show the hood who put Sergeant Carey away and nearly put your name 
on the bronze honor roll, too."

"That's why I came," Nolan said. "I want a look at the rat. Those boys were masked 
that night, but I'm not so bad at judging heights and sizes. How'd you happen to 
round up this guy?"

"He had a gun, was picked up on suspicion, and we tested the gun as a routine 
measure. The bullet that killed Carey and a couple taken out of your hide were fired 
by that gun. Paraden--he's the man arrested--gave us a weak yarn about finding the 
gat. But, tucked in the toe of his shoe, we also found a fifty-dollar bill. Being 
as how all crooks are saps, Paraden didn't notice that a very small piece of 
currency wrapper from tbe bank still adhered to the bill. It ties him up--in knots!"

Captain Blane opened the door of the line-up room. It was crowded with detectives. 
The small stage was brightly illuminated, but tho room itself was in semidarkness. 
While the assembled detectives could see the prisoners, they, in turn, could see 
nothing of the men who watched them.

"Stay here," Blane told Nolan. "I'll question Paraden, myself. You take a good look 
at him. There's no mistake this time, Nolan, but it would help if he was about the 
same build as the man who gunned you down and killed Carey."

Nolan nodded somberly. "Bring him out, captain. Let's have a look at the punk,"

Blane hurried away. A second-story burglar swaggered across thc stage, answered 
questions with a cynical smile on his face and was then marched off. Paraden came 
next. The moment he stepped into the bright lights, Nolan knew this was not one of 
the two men who had killed Sergeant Carey. They had been masked, true but Nolan 
had noticed the whiteness of their skin--on the hands and the neck. Paraden was of 
Spanish descent and swarthy.

"No! You got me all wrong," Paraden answered Captain Blane's question. "I didn't 
knock off that copper. I wasn't there when it happened. I found the gun in an 
alley and I kept it. Sure I'm a crook, but I never killed nobody. The fifty-dollar 
bill? I was paid for a job yesterday--a little matter of overhauling a stool pigeon. 
But I ain't no killer."

"Who," Captain Blaine's voice was brittle, "paid you to overhaul what stool pigeon?"

Paraden gulped. It was evident he didn't want to answer that question, but he also 
knew that his own life hung in the balance and crooks of all types are notoriously 
selfish when it comes to personal danger. Paraden opened his mouth.

At that precise moment somebody gave Detective Jimmy Nolan a terrific shove toward 
the middle of the room. As Nolan went reeling forward, a gun blasted! Just once. 
The single chunk of steel hit Paraden full in the face. He was dead before he crashed 
to the floor of the stage!

Lights were turned on. Captain Blane saw Jimmy Nolan staggering around the back of 
the spacious room. He elbowed his way toward him. Inspector Curtis of the detective 
division climbed to the stage, raised his hands and issued some terse orders.

"A man in this room fired that shot. All doors are to be locked. Men, I don't like 
to say this, but one of you shot this prisoner. I don't know why and I don't care. 
The fact remains that the shot came from this room--from among you men. I want 
every man to expose his gun, grasp it by the barrel and be ready for an examination."

"Somebody gave me a shove," Nolan told Captain Blane. "Must have opened the door. 
I was standing very close to it. I...my gun! It's gone! I had it in my holster!"

Blane's eyes swept across the floor, narrowed. Then, without a word, he walked 
forward a few paces, bent down and picked up a .38 police service pistol. He wrapped 
it in a handkerchief very carefully.

"You better have a talk with Inspector Curtis," Blane said. "I'm sorry, Nolan. This 
looks like your gun, and it's been fired within the last couple of minutes. You 
certainly must have hated the man who killed Sergeant Carey. Everyone knows that you 
and Carey were the best of friends."

"But I...I didn't fire a shot," Nolan protested weakly. "I didn't even touch my gun. 
Somebody must have yanked it out of the holster at the same moment I was shoved 
forward. Look around outside; the killer must be there."

Blane's hand closed around Nolan's arm. He was led to where Inspector Curtis was 
rapidly examining the proffered guns of each detective. Blane explained tersely, 
and Nolan was led to the inspector's private office.

"I hate to say it," Curtis sighed, "but it looks very bad for you, Nolan. You had 
the motive. In fact, you were warned not to leave the hospital because your 
condition didn't warrant it. However, your gun has been sent to ballistics and 
fingerprint experts. We'll soon know if it fired the shot that killed Paraden and 
whether or not anyone else handled the weapon."

"Look," Nolan said, "just before it happened, I was about to warn Captain Blane 
that Paraden couldn't possibly have been one of the two holdup men who killed 
Sergeant Carey and wounded me. I was close to the killers--they were not swarthy-
sklnnod as Paraden is. I think he was framed, and then killed so the case would 
be closed."

Inspector Curtis glanced at Nolan with doubt shining clearly in his eyes.

An hour later reports came from the laboratories. The gun had fired a bullet, the 
markings of which matched that extracted from Paraden's head. The only fingerprints 
on the gun were those of Jimmy Nolan.

"I'll leave you here to think it over," Inspector Curtis said. "By making a clean 
breast of it, you'll help yourself. There is paper on my desk in case you wish to 
write a confession."

Curtis waiked out and Nolan heard the door lock from the other side. He slumped 
deeper in his chair, trying to figure it all out. The whole thing was a set-up. 
With Paraden arrested and conclusive evidence found on his person, with him 
murdered by the detective who had ample reason to hate him, the holdup of the 
Security Trust Co. would automatically be solved and the murderer of Sergeant 
Carey accounted for.

Nolan paced the floor. He had to do something to save himself from this frame. 
Suddenly he stopped and stared thoughtfully straight ahead. He determined on a 
bold move. First of all, he had to get out of this office. They'd never believe 
his theory as to how the crime was committed. If he wanted action, he had to 
create it, himself.

Nolan walked swiftly to a steel locker in which Inspector Curtis kept his civilian 
clothes. He found this opened, fumbled in Curtis' pockets and discovered a leather 
key case. Curtis was in the habit of keeping his office locked up at night and 
Nolan knew that he carried a key to the door in his civilian clothes, He listened 
intently, made sure no one was outside the office, and then he quietly unlocked 
it. The long hallway outside was deserted.

Nolan hurried to a side exit, spotted a cab and hailed it. He had himself driven 
to the busiest section of the city, dismissed the cab and walked a few blocks to 
a drugstore where there were a score of telephone booths. The activity tired him. 
The nearly healed wounds in his abdomen were burning fiercely, but he was fighting 
for his existence, now. Pain and weakness meant little.

What he had to do must be accomplished very swiftly before an alarm was sent out 
for him and before newspapers printed his picture. He dialed the hospital at 
which he had been a patient, asked for Gilkin, the orderly, and learned that 
he had gone home. Nolan knew his address.

Gilkin lived at a drab-looking boardinghouse. Nolan went around to the back of it, 
entered the kitchen door and made his way, undetected, to the staircase. He knew 
where Gilkin lived because the orderly had often complained about the noise of 
the elevated as it roared by his corner room. He could almost reach out and touch 
it, according to his version.

Nolan tapped on a couple of doors before Gilkin's nasal voice demanded to know who 
he was. Nolan mumbled something and knocked again. Gilkin turned the key, and Nolan 
gave the door a stiff shove. The orderly flew backward, tripped and sprawled on 
the floor. Before he could get up, Nolan had him in a firm grip and was extracting 
a small snub-nosed revolver from his hip pocket.

"Didn't expect me, did you?," Nolan snapped. "Listen, you heel, I was kind to you; 
in reward, you double-crossed me. You were the only person who knew I was going to 
leave the hospital. I paid you ten bucks to get my clothes. You tipped somebody 
off--and did it before I left, because the stage was all set when I reached 
headquarters. Who was it, Gilkin? Tell me, or you're liable to hear your own gun 
go off in your face."

Gilkin was edging back, terror written all over his scrawny face. The muzzle of 
the small gun looked like the mouth of a cannon to him. He tried to talk, but only 
a few garbled words came from his lips.

"Who paid you to watch me at the hospital?" Nolan demanded. "You were hired right 
after I was admitted, and, somehow, you got on my floor. You hung around every 
minute you could spare. You wanted to find out if I'd talk, in delirium. The mugs 
who murdered Sergeant Carey think perhaps I know them. Maybe I do. Talk, Gilkin--
and fast!"

But the orderly seemed even more terrified than before. His eyes, previously 
centered on Nolan, were looking over the detective's shoulder, now. Nolan heard 
the floor squeak behind him. He started to turn. Something was dropped over his 
head and fastened there. He tried to get himself free; but blinded, and weakened 
now from the shock of the attack, he reeled across the room, tripped and fell 
heavily.

Then his fingers found the knots, began opening them. He heard a half strangled 
sob, a muttered oath and when he removed the object that almost smothered him, he 
saw Gilkin Iying on the floor. There was a knife handle protruding just above his 
heart!

Nolan knelt beside the man, felt for a pulse and found one that slowly faded way. 
Gilkin gave a final convulsive jerk and was dead. The orderly's coat--which had 
hung near the door--had been dropped over Nolan's head and the sleeves wrapped 
around his neck and tied. The killer, then, had been forced to act very swiftly. 
But how had he known Nolan was here?

A siren's wail brought Nolan back to earth. Whoever had done the knifing had also 
tipped the cops. That was a radio car pulling up in front of the house. Nolan 
realized that he was in a worse spot than before. Undoubtedly, the knife handle 
would bear no prints. He noticed that his left sleeve was bloodstained, probably 
from brushing against the dying man as he felt for a pulse. His part in the crime 
could be motivated by the fact that perhaps Gilkin might have known he intended to 
kill Paraden. Anyway, this was no place for Nolan.

There was an old oil stove in one corner of the room. He carried that over beside 
the corpse, opened the top of it and, as he expected, found it covered with carbon. 
He picked up Gilkin's right hand, pressed the fingertips against the soot and 
hastily made some perfect fingerprints on a piece of paper.

He hurried out of the room, ran lightly down the hall and heard someone banging on 
the front door. He saw a small linen closet, squeezed into it and waited until the 
two radio patrolmen hurried by. Then he came out, ran down the steps and made his 
way out through the back door. He cut across back yards, scaling fences laboriously. 
He didn't dare try to vault them because his legs felt too weak.

He reached a street several blocks from where Gilkin had been murdered. It 
contained a number of secondhand stores and he purchased a magnifying glass. 
Nolan had always taken his police work seriously, and he was as much of a finger-
print expert as the men who worked in the labs. He found a quiet spot in a park, 
studied the prints of the dead man intently and classified them. With this 
classification, he could very easily identify Gilkin if the man had a record, and 
Nolan was reasonably sure he did have. But he couldn't walk into headquarters and 
ask to look through their files. There was only one way to handle it. He hurried 
to the nearest store and called the Federal Bureau of Investigation offices in 
Washington.

"This is Detective James Nolan," he identified himself. Washington wouldn't have 
heard of his being suspected as a killer, yet. "I've got the classification of 
certain fingerprints and I want to find out if you have anything on the man."

Within ten minutes Nolan had what he wanted. Gilkin's right name was Frankie Hunter 
and he had a sizable record, starting with rolling drunks as a boy and leading up 
to suspected murder.

"He was a member of Hawley's mob before he was sent away the last time," the F.B.I. 
man explained. "He served three years for carrying a gun. Most of the time he spent 
in the prison hospital as an orderly."

"Thanks," Nolan said softly as he hung up. Hawley, one of the mob kingpins!  
Gilkin-or Hunter-had worked for him. Hawley was the type who'd shoot his way out 
of a trap without the slightest compunction.

Hawley, he knew, ran a cafe deep in the underworld section of the city. There, 
the mob leader planned his jobs, hid his men who were wanted by the law and trained 
newcomers whom he believed worthy to work for him. Getting into that place would 
prove a tough nut to crack, but actually finding Hawley's quarters would be even 
more difficult. Raiding squads had tried it several times without success.

Nolan was tired, but he fought off fatigue and trudged by devious routes to the 
section where Hawley was located. He surveyed the cafe, pictured its interior 
mentally and rejected the idea of invading the place and taking his chances of 
being recognized. To find Hawley, he must be subtle, shrewd. Nolan made his way 
to the rear of the building, a five-story structure of fireproof brick, set against 
the wall of a small warehouse building.

He approached the door through which supplies were passed into the basement. It 
was locked, but he worked the latch open with a piece of rusty iron which ke found 
near the rubbish burner. Several beer pumps were chugging away, and they masked 
any sound his forced entry might have made. Nolan climbed stairs and reached the 
first floor, directly behind the long bar. There was a stairway to his left and he 
went up this cautiously. Now, he was in deadly peril, for evory member of Hawley's 
mob knew him and his presence here would result in quick death!

On the second floor, the building resembled a hotel, with rooms every few feet. 
All the doors were locked. The corridor was murky with the growing darkness of 
night. It was raining, too--a chill, raw storm that made Nolan shiver. He heard 
someone coming up the stairs and quickly drew back into the protection of a nook. 
He had no gun, no weapon except his fists, and these didn't offer any great help, 
for his muscles had grown flabby in the hospital and all his activity during the 
day had made him more fit for a bed than a danger prowl.

A slender, slit-eyed man ambled down the corridor. He was one of Hawley's 
lieutenants. As the hood walked past the nook where Nolan was hiding, the 
detective leaped. He landed across the mobster's shoulders. One hand clamped 
over his mouth; the other rapped half a dozen blows to his chin. Anyone would 
have ordinarily been smashed into unconsciousness by a single one of Nolan's 
right hooks, but the detective had to administer six before the hood sagged to 
the floor. Nolan jumped clear, bent over the half-conscious man and searched 
him. In a shoulder clip he found a snub-nosed revolver, and in a pocket he 
discovered a numbered key. Nolan found the room corresponding to the number on 
the key, opened the door, and then pointed his purloined pistol toward the 
ceiling. He fired two quick shots, closed the door all but a fraction of an 
inch and waited for developments.

They came with a fury that astounded the detective. A dozen doors flew open and 
armed men ran into the corridor. The slender crook was sitting up, rubbing his 
chin and trying to figure out what it all meant.

"Get Hawley," someone said. "Quick!"

One of the men raced away. Three minutes later Nolan saw a door at the far end 
of the corridor open and Hawley emerged. He was a darkfeatured man with heavy 
eyebrows that ran in a straight line across his forehead. Bulky, strong as a 
bull, amd with the same kind of temper, he played the game for keeps. He listened 
to his subordinate's explanation, and then growled an order. "Search this place
--every room, every floor. Start downstairs because the guy who slugged Benny 
must've gone back to the bar. Let me know as soon as you find anything."

To Nolan's amazement, all of the thugs hurried downstairs. Hawley followed them 
to the top of the steps and continued to call out directions. Nolan slipped out 
of the room and sped straight toward the door through which Hawley had emerged. 
It was a small bedroom and showed no indications that Hawley had been there very 
long. Nolan had a well formed idea that this was just the anteroom to larger 
quarters. He hastily pulled the bed away from the wall, got behind it and ducked 
out of sight.

Hawley entered the room after two or three minutes, walked directly to the farther 
wall, looked around suspiciously and finally bent down and ran his fingers over a 
section of the baseboard. A narrow door opened silently. Hawley had to enter it 
sideways. The panel closed behind him.

Nolan hastily examined the gun he had taken from the thug. There were four more 
bullets in it--plenty for Hawley. He moved toward the wall through which the mob 
leader had disappeared, pressed his ear against the surface and listened. No 
sound reached him. He bent down, gently fanned the baseboard with his fingertips 
and located the control. He took a long breath, held the gun firmly and pressed 
the control. The narrow door slid open. It was a very thick door and Nolan 
realized just how clever Hawley masked his hide-out. His main quarters were in 
the warehouse adjoining the inn. Both walls formed this door. No wonder raiding 
squads never found anything.

Then Nolan's shoulders drooped. He let go of his gun and heard it thump on the 
floor. The muzzle of another weapon was pressed against the small of his back.

"O.K., wise guy," someone hissed, "you found the place so go right in. The boss 
is expectin' you."

Nolan obeyed because tbere was nothing else he could do. Black despair gripped 
him. He'd gone this far on sheer nerve, and now that he seemed to be securely 
trapped, the old weakness was assailing him again. He stumbled into a room of 
the adjoining building. It was lavishly furnished, and Hawley sat behind a big 
desk, a gun in his hand.

"Well, well," Hawley grunted, "if it ain't Nolan, the killer cop. And like all 
flatfeet, as dumb as they come. Say--when Benny told me his room key was missing, 
I knew whoever slugged him must have ducked in his room. So I sent the boys 
downstairs, but they knew what to do all right. Then I led you right here. Nice 
work, huh? Now, copper, maybe you'll tell me why you came."

"You know why," Nolan groaned. "I didn't kill Paraden this afternoon. He was 
one of your mob. You framed the bank stick-up on him, hoping he'd be so enmeshed 
in guilt that nothing he could say would mean much. You wanted that cop-killing 
rap squashed, and the only way to do it was to throw somebody to the lions. If 
Paraden died while suspected of the crime, it would be a closed issue."

Hawley laughed crookedly and shrugged his shoulders. "Hear how he talks, boys. 
Says I killed Paraden. Of all the crazy ideas, when this copper's own gun did 
the job. What a laughl"

Hawley's three henchmen, who had entered the room, laughed obediently. Then 
the mob leader's lower lip curled. He arose, strode up to Nolan and struck 
him a savage backhand blow. It sent the detective reeling backward. One of 
the thugs stuck out his foot. Nolan tripped and went down with a crash. Hawley 
kicked him in the ribs, snapped orders and the detective was hoisted to his 
feet and thrown into a chair.

Hawley regarded him intently for a moment. "Maybe this dumb copper does know 
something," he mused aloud. "He's got to be put away--neatly, too, because we 
don't want amybody to suspect he was bumped off. Now, he's on the lam; he's 
got to hide out, so why not in some nice chilly place where he might catch cold 
and die of pneumonia? Everybody'll say he was hiding out, and he couldn't take 
it. Benny, he conked you good so you can have the fun of paying him back. Beat 
it upstairs and bring down one of those electric blankets we swiped from that 
highjacking job a couple of months ago. I always wondered if that thing would 
do us any good."

Hawley gave more orders. Nolan sat there, watching the preparations being made 
for his death. He couldn't quite figure out Hawley's scheme of things, yet, 
especially when two of the crooks took a bed apart and carried it, piecemeal, 
into Hawley's quarters. They set this up near the window. Then Benny returned 
with a heavy woolen blanket, lined with electrical heating elements.

Nolan sat very quiet. Gradually, he realized what Hawley intended to do, and 
the diabolical cleverness of the scheme made his blood run cold. Still he made 
no attempt to escape or attack his captors. Nolan's strength had nearly run 
out, and he was striving to get some of it back.

Then Hawley suddenly pounced upon tbe detective, as though he'd guessed that 
Nolan's intentions were to seize the first opportunity to escape. With the 
aid of two other men, Nolan was thrown into the bed. The electric blanket was 
draped around him, and he found that it was held tightly in place by straps. 
Then the juice was turned on. In five minutes Nolan was sweating from every 
pore.

Hawley stepped up to the bed. "This is going to take time, pal. I'11 leave 
Benny to watch you. Soon as you're nice and warm, he'll douse you with ice 
water and open the window so you can breathe some of that nice, cool, wet 
air. It's raining, which is nice for this new idea on how to kill a man and 
leave no clue. Happy shivering, copper."

Hawley put the palm of his hand against Nolan's face and pushed his head back 
against the pillow. He laughed harshly and went out. Benny, the slender thug 
whom Nolan had knocked cold in the hall, sat down on a chair to keep a death 
vigil, Twenty minutes later he shut off the blanket, lashed Nolan's arms and 
legs to the bed and then removed the blanket. The shock of the icy spray Benny 
doused him with made Nolan's teeth rattle, but it also served to revive him. 
Benny opened the window and a cold, biting rain swept in. Nolan, his head close 
to the window, shivered uncontrollably.

He fought off a general feeling of weakness; forced his brain to stay clear, 
even after Benny hauled him back into the room and applied the heated blanket 
again.

This time Nolan went to work! The blanket straps held his arms down, but his 
fingers were free. He began picking at the blanket with his fingernails until 
he touched the hot wire. Gradually he bared this more and more until a foot of 
it was exposed. Then, by wriggling his body, he managed to worry the blanket 
closer to the edge of the metal bed. There was a flash as the charged wire 
contacted the metal.

Benny saw the column of smoke and heard the hiss as the wiring shorted. Nolan 
called to him. "Benny--the blanket is on fire. I'11 be burned to death! They'll 
know Hawley kil]ed me then. Get it off! Get it off--"

Benny had a one-track mind. He knew that Hawley wanted this detective disposed 
of in a manner which would never be set down as murder, Benny seized the bait 
which Nolan dangled before him. He ripped the blanket up, raising it very high 
as he did so. Nolan's foot shot out. The blanket fell over Benny's head. He 
floundered around, cursing savagely. Nolan was ready for this. He gave a violent 
lurch upward! The straps, holding the blanket in place, were meant only for that 
purpose, not to hold a man down. He leaped out of the bed, seized a chair and 
brought it down on Benny's blanket-covered skull, The crook dropped to the floor.

Nolan got the blanket off him, searched the man and found another gun. He 
quickly hoisted Benny to the bed, draped the blanket over him and then walked 
to the secret door. Now, he could only wait and hope.

Twenty minutes later he heard a click. Hawley was entering the room. The gang 
leader saw only the form huddled under the blanket, for Nolan had purposely 
dimmed the lighting in the room.

"He ought to be good and sick by now." Hawley peered through the gloom trying 
to find Benny.

"Not half as sick as you'll feel if you don't lift your hands!" Nolan pressed 
the gun against Hawley's back. "Reach, killer!"

Hawley raised his hands shoulder-high, turned slowly and growled a curse when 
he saw Nolan.

Then, as swiftly as a cobra strikes, Hawley's left hand shot down. It hit 
Nolan's wrist. The gun fell to the floor! Hawley let out a grunt of satisfaction, 
curled one hand into a mighty fist and swung. The blow whizzed through air, and 
Hawley suddenly felt the jab of Nolan's fist against bis nose. That fist didn't 
carry too much steam, but it kept coming in fast--so fast that Hawley was blinded, 
unable to spot his opponent. He tried to cover up, but the attack then switched 
to pound against his middle. Nolan stepped back, summoned all his strength and 
plastered the hardest blow he could muster, squarely against the killer's jaw.

Five minutes later Nolan was again straining his weakened system by lowering 
the big thug out of the window with a rope made of bed sheets. When Hawley 
landed on the ground in a courtyard behind the building, Nolan made sure that 
Benny would continue to sleep peacefully for a while. Then he swung out of 
the window and went down hand over hand.

A patrolman saw him staggering down the street with Hawley's bulk draped over 
one shoulder.

"Yeah," Nolan gasped, "it's me all right. But I've got the guy who killed 
Paraden. Call the wagon and have a good-sized raiding party sent out quick. 
Hawley's gang can be rounded up this time."

Inspector Curtis eyed Hawley's swollen features, looked at NoIan and shook his 
head.

"For a man as sick as the doctors say you are, you gave a good account of your-
self. I'm sorry about accusing you of murder. Now, let's have the story."

Nolan grinned. "It's simple. My orderly at the hospital was planted there by 
Hawley. He was to watch and listen in case I made any statements about identifying 
those two hoods who killed Sergeant Carey.Then, when I bribed the orderly to get 
my clothes so I could attend the line-up, the little rat called Hawley, who 
planned this whole thing. Hawley was at the license bureau, seeing about the 
renewal of his cafe license which doesn't expire for weeks. We can place him at 
the scene of the crime easily. He just opened the door of the line-up room, gave 
me a push and fired one shot from my service pistol. Then he beat it before any 
rumpus was raised, and nobody suspected him."

"That sounds logical," Inspector Curtis nodded, "except for one thing. If he 
fired that gun, his prints would have been on it unless he wore gloves."

"He did," Nolan said. "That's what gave the whole set-up away. The orderly at the 
hospital handed me a service pistol. It looked just like mine; so I took it without 
question. But, before that, he passed my real gun to one of Hawley's men. Hawley 
took the gun, making sure not to mar my prints. He killed Paraden with it and 
threw it on the floor. The gun I had in my holster was lifted from me by someone 
in the crowd outside the license bureau. I know that the orderly never handed me 
my service pistol, because if he had done so, then his prints would have been on 
it, too. And they weren't. Yesterday I cleaned my pistol and oiled it so he'd 
have besn bound to leave prints if he handled it carelessly. That put me on the 
orderly's track, and I just kept on going until I ran into Hawley."

The inspector's phone rang. He listened a moment and then his facc became grim, 
"We collected all of Hawley's men, thanks to your tip that they escaped into the 
adjoining building during a raid. A few are talking their heads off. Hawley it 
guilty al1 right. Now, Nolan, you'd better get back to the hospital. After that 
ghastly treatment under an electric blanket--"

Nolan lit a cigarette. "I feel great, inspector. I'm ready for anything that comes 
along. Hawley's treatment took six weeks of hospital kinks out of me, but I hate to 
think of what the court's treatment is going to do to him."


THE END. 



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