DRUMS OF DEATH 
by MILTON LOWE 

Chet Haywood wanted to see the inside of that new store. 
And curiosity almost cost him his life!

Chet Haywood, first-grade detective, was next in line to get his pay check. But he 
didn't reach for it. Instead, he looked around at the other cops in the squad room. 
They were trying not to grin. Chet knew what was coming, and his ears burned a cherry-
red. He put out his big paw for the check. Immediately the squad-room chorus broke 
loose.

"Turra bank! Turra bank! Turra bank, bank, bank!"

Some of the cops banged on the table, drummed on the walls and hammered on the radi-
ator in accompaniment.

Chet's ears got red, his neck swelled, and his blood boiled with embarrassment, but 
he took the vocal hot-foot good-naturedly. It wasn't a crime to be thrifty. He grinned 
sheepishly, then walked out of the station house and headed for the Mechanics Savings 
Bank down the block.

It was a pay-day ritual. Ever since be and Martha had married, Chet made it a habit to 
put away part of his salary. He hoped to have enough to build a home of their own. As 
he walked along he shrugged. Let 'em laugh.

Realizing suddenly that the bank closed at noon on Saturday, Chet hurried. He made it 
with minutes to spare. The teller didn't have to be told what to do. While Chet endorsed 
the check, the teller dealt out three quarters of the amount in bank notes and marked 
the rest to Chet's account. Chet beamed at the figures in the bank book, then stowed it 
into his pocket.

He'd get another salute back at the station house and the whole thing would be forgotten 
until the next pay day. Chet squirmed just a little as he started for the street. Old Bob 
Linwood, the guard, stopped him, said hello and asked how Martha was.

"She's fine," Chet said and was going to say something about having a home of their own. 
He didn't. No use jinxing it.

Old Bob didn't notice Chet's biting his lip. The guard was nodding toward the other side 
of the street. "Candy store and soda fountain opening up Monday," he said. "Good location 
for that kind of a store, eh, Chet ?"

The big detective hadn't paid much attention to the alterations going on in the one-story 
brick building until now. He glanced across speculatively. A chain grocery store had 
failed there a few months back, and the place had been vacant since.

"Ought to brighten up the avenue Some," Chet said, thinking he'd get his smokes there and 
save the walk of an extra block. He moved out of the bank. "S'long, Bob. Remember me at 
home."

He noticed that the plate-glass windows of the store had been whitewashed to hide the 
work going on inside. Two large banners across the upper part of the windows announced 
the Monday opening. Chet had turned to go straight back to the station house when he saw 
a small truck braking to a stop at the curb in front of the store.

The legend on the truck read:

			CITY CARBONATED WATER,INC.

As Chet watched, two men jumped out. One was young, swarthy and moved with quick, catlike 
motions. The other was a beefy guy, overweight and lumbering. Both of them went to the 
tailboard and lowered it.

The young fellow sprang onto the truck, hoisted a heavy drum and shoved it to his partner. 
The big guy eased the drum to the asphalt as though it didn't weigh more than a two-by-
four wood joist. To show it wasn't a freak, he handled the second drum as easily.

Chet was impressed.

He looked on as the men spun the drums to the store. The little guy had quite a tussle. 
It wasn't even exercise for the big man. They disappeared inside the store, closing the 
door after them.

Chet was about to continue back to the station house when a thought hit him. He frowned. 
Maybe he was too suspicious, but there was no harm making sure. He crossed the street. As 
he reached the truck fender, the swarthy helper came out of the store and jogged to the 
driver's seat. He glanced at Chet, then ignored him. His eyes seemed furtive. He snatched 
up a kit of tools and in his haste yanked it open.

Chet was near enough to see tools gleaming in the sunlight. But something else glimmered. 
A pair of round, dark disks. Chet stepped up, saying: "Installing a carbonated system?"

The helper glowered, nodding his head. He snapped shut the tool kit and lugged it toward 
the store. Chet was at his heels, wondering where he had seen the face before. Faces were 
hard for him to remember. Names and figures were easier. At the door the helper whirled 
angrily.

"Say, what's the big idea?"

Chet smiled a disarming smile. "Keep going, fella," he said, motioning to the store. "You 
know, I've always wanted to see how those drums get connected to a carbonated system."

Footsteps sounded in the store. The door opened inward. The beefy guy stood there, his 
black, sunken eyes glinting. He looked at his helper.

"This guy," he was told, "wants to see us connect the drums."

"Yeah, that's right," chimed in Chet, lids narrowing. He showed his shield, his right 
hand straying to his hip. He carried a .38 Colt there. "Any reason why I can't?"

The big man grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. "No, sir, there ain't. Dice didn't 
know you was a dick. Come on in. We'll show you the works."

Chet didn't like the way it was said. It sounded like a threat. He waved them in ahead. 
They left the door wide for him to follow. Chet stepped across the threshold, eyes glued 
on the two of them. But what he could see of the store itself told him the place could 
never be ready for business on Monday,

He took another step inside, then heard the door slam behind him. He jerked his head 
sidewise. Something swished past his ear! He ducked, leaped to his left, going for his 
gun.

But the claw end of a midget crowbar slashed down on his fingers. They went numb, para-
lyzed with pain. He turned fast, his left fist jabbing. It nailed the third man on the 
chin, drove him away. Chet followed him with a left hook to the mouth. A low cry mingled 
with the clang of the crowbar striking the floor. Chet wheeled, saw the helper plucking 
a gun out of the tool kit and threw himself at the hood.

But the heavyweight thug lunged, ramming a hamlike fist to the detective's chest! Chet 
didn't let it stop him. He smashed a hard left to the middle of the guy's paunch, barged 
right past him and kicked at the gun in the helper's hand. The blunt toe caught the 
man's wrist, sent the gun sailing. But doing that left Chet wide open to attack from the 
rear.

The beefy thug pounded a right to the base of the detective's head, clouted a left behind 
his ear! Chet thought a safe had landed on him. His knees went rubbery; he staggered, 
pitching to the floor. He tried to right himself by grabbing the shelving near him. But 
the bruiser tore in, swinging.

Chet squared his shoulders, balanced himself. He broke through the flailing arm with a 
stiff left. It bounced off the brute's nose, drawing blood.

It slowed up the man for a second. Chet brought up his guard, realizing the big guy had 
ring experience by the way he feinted and angled for a knockout smash. Chet crossed him 
up, jumping in with a left for the soft middle. The punch was blocked. A leer twisted 
the man's thick lips.

Chet was too busy to pay any attention to the swarthy helper. Not until he heard the 
swish of the crowbar did he glance around. The helper was swinging that crowbar like a 
bat. Chet tried to avoid it by dropping. It saved him from a fractured skull.

Though his hat flattened, cushioned some of the force of the blow, everything swirled 
before him. He stumbled, groping wildly, not seeing a thing. Then a black drape envel-
oped him.

His legs gave in, though he seemed to float in midair. Then he plunged down into an 
abyss as deep as it was dark. Blood gushed from his head wound and he lay as if dead.


The big guy bent over him, snorted. "He ain't dead -- yet." He stood up, looked at the 
man coming to near the door. "Snap out of it, Joe. You and Dice lug this bull to the 
cellar and tie him up."

"Let me finish him off, Spud," said Dice.

"No, I want him alive for a while." Spud's eyes glittered. "Maybe the cops got a line 
on us. This dick'll tell us. And if we get into a spot, we got a hostage. Get it?"

Dice rubbed his palms together, grinned viciously. He got it -- plenty. Spud yelled 
to Joe again.

"Stop feelin' your jaw. He don't hit so hard. Come on! We got lots to do yet!"


When consciousness returned to Chet he heard a thud-thud. First he thought it was the 
banging in his head. He wondered what had happened; where he was. He knew he was Iying 
flat on his back. The noise puzzled him. Then he recognized the clang of a pickax 
striking stone. His brain raced.

Suddenly, he remembered everything. As he did, a shaft of agony shot through his head. 
The throbbing doubled. He tried to move, but couldn't. Dread poured down his spine.

The next instant he blew out a sigh of relief. He wasn't paralyzed. He was tied hand 
and foot. The rope was cutting into his wrists and ankles. Sweat began to break out on 
his face.

He twisted his body, rolled on his side. He blinked, his eyes getting used to the semi-
darkness. Light, he could see, was being reflected from somewhere. Half the cellar was 
piled with earth. Then he knew where he was. Under the store. More than that, it told 
him that the light was coming from a tunnel -- a tunnel dug under the street toward the 
bank!

His pulse climbed; his breath came in quick gasps. The set-up was clear to him. The 
store had been rented as a blind. The windows had been whitewashed not only to hide 
alterations in the store, but to cover up the gang's real purpose -- to rob the bank!

Chet's suspicions about the drums, the two dark disks, had been correct. All the while 
alterations were supposed to be going on, the gang had been burrowing through the 
cellar toward the bank vault.

The drums did not contain carbonated gas. They contained gases of another type. Oxygen 
and acetylene -- for blow torches. The gang was going to cut through the steel wall of 
the vault to the fortune in cash kept there.

And Chet Haywood was helpless to stop it. A groan of despair broke involuntarily through 
his clenched teeth. The cellar amplified it. The digging ceased at once. Boots shuffled 
toward him. He saw the wiry helper, Dice. The punk wore overalls; he held a shovel mena-
cingly.

"So you've come to, eh ?" he sneered. "Been out a long time." He inspected the rope 
binding Chet by a flashlight beam. He was satisfied. "You'll keep till Spud and me get 
ready for you." He went back into the tunnel, his voice echoing back: "He can't budge, 
Spud."

The pickax went to work again. Chet could count the blows. Once, twice, then the unmis-
takable ring of steel on steel. A bark of glee came from Spud. "That's it -- the wall 
of the safe."

Chet's heart missed a beat. With oxy-acetylene torches, it would be a matter of minutes 
before the steel wall was penetrated -- a hole cut out large enough for Dice to crawl 
through.


Spud! At first the name meant nothing to him. He thought of bank robbers wanted by the 
law. Then the answer came to him. It chilled his blood. Spud Taylor! Chet was positive 
now. He had seen the thug's picture on circulars at the station house. Taylor was an 
escaped lifer who killed at the slightest provocation. Chet's body grew taut.

He had stumbled upon two desperate killers, had caught them redhanded, But what was the 
use? He couldn't do a thing. He blamed himself for walking right into a trap, getting 
knocked out, then being hogtied while the gang went on with their work

He strained at the rope. Human strength alone couldn't break it. There had to be another 
way. He dug his nails into the knots, but with his hands behind his back, it was a tor-
turous effort, a wasting ordeal.

If he got his hands around in front and could sink his teeth into the knots --

He bent his legs as far back as they would go, rolled on his thigh, then forced himself 
upward. It took all his strength. His head wound smarted from sweat; his blood hammered 
in his veins. He gritted his teeth, kept at it. When it looked as if he would never 
make -- he did!

He was upright, on his knees, legs balancing him from behind. He waited, listening. The 
tunnel work was speeding up, he realized. He drank down a breath and tackled the next 
step.

He arched his back, formed an O with his arms. Then he pushed his hands so the rope 
around his wrists slipped under his shoes to the ankles, inch by inch he pulled forward 
along his legs. His breath wheezed in his nostrils; his lungs felt afire.

Nearer and nearer to his kneecaps he forced his hands, scraping off skin until raw flesh 
was exposed. Carefully, then, he twisted his hands to a position for his final move. He 
toppled over on his side, yanked his hands up and forward, straightened out his legs.

His hands were in front, now!

But Spud had overheard the fall of Chet's body. The killer barged out, flashing his light. 
He spat a curse and rushed at the detective.

"Trying to break free, eh?" His eyes were black coals of hate. "It's as good as tellin' 
me you're the only copper wise to us."

He kicked Chet on the side of the head, The wound reopened and more blood spilled out. 
The kick all but knocked him senseless again. A million needles seemed to be sticking 
into him, then numbness branched out. Above him, Spud Taylor looked like am unsteady 
apparition. It swooped down suddenly.


Vaguely, Chet was aware of being dragged to the tunnel by the rope around his wrists. He 
was dumped close to the scene of operations.

"I'll tend to you later," Spud growled, then looked down with a snarl of disgust. "The 
lug can't take it. He's out cold again,"

Spud was wrong. Chet had deliberately closed his eyes. He lay like that for a short while. 
The numbness started to leave him, but the pain grew, went through him like molten lead.

Through slitted lids he peeped about. Within arm length were both drums of gas. Hoses 
were connected from them to two torches. Dice, wearing goggles, was using one, while the 
thickset Joe worked the other. They were cutting parallel lines in the exposed wall of the vault.

"How's it look?" asked Spud.

"Good," said Dice. "I shoved a rod through, and it didn't touch anything."

Spud turned impatiently to Joe. "Here -- gimme the torch. You beat it for the truck. Take 
a gander around, too; see if we're in the clear. Make sure, get me!"

Spud put on the goggles, took the torch. The bluish-white tip of fire was less than three 
inches long. But it could eat through the toughest steel.

Chet lay still until Joe was well out of the tunnel and both Spud and Dice were too busy 
to bother with him. The steel square was almost completely chiseled out when Chet looked 
up. Spud grunted, shut off his torch valves, letting Dice finish up.

"Ready with the pliers," snapped Dice.

Spud seized the pliers, dropped his torch, then clamped the plier jaws firmly onto the 
upper edge of the steel slab which had been cut out. Obviously, they didn't want the steel 
to fall inside the vault. It would make noise, and the less, the better.

Spud's muscles rippled. He lifted the steel piece free and set it on the dirt pile and 
against the two drums. The hole was big enough for Dice to get through without much 
trouble.

Pulling off his goggles, Dice twisted the valves of his torch to douse the flame. Then he 
dropped it to the ground. Excitement showed on his face as he poked his flashlight into 
the vault.

"Look at them bags, Spud! What a haul!"

He struck his head and shoulders into the opening. Spud helped him wiggle through, then 
held the flashlight so Dice would have both hands free.

This was Chet's chance. They were too intent on what they were doing. His mind galloped 
with an idea. It might work. It had to work! He wasn't kidding himself. They would kill 
him when they were through.

He reached out for the torch Dice had used. His fingers curled on its metal cylinder. 
Noiselessly, he drew the torch out of sight under the slab of steel. He scarcely breathed, 
lest he tip off the killers. Would it end in disaster for him, anyway?

Chet wiped such thoughts from his mind. He compressed his jaws until they ached. With each 
passing second his anguish, his doubts, mounted, He relied upon greed to keep the two men 
absorbed.

They were transferring bags of currency from the vault. Dice handed them one at a time to 
Spud, who dropped them at his feet on the tunnel side of the vault. Any sound Chet made 
was drowned out by the killers, They were gloating, talking with a note of glee in their 
voices.

Chet withdrew his hands, the rope burned off his wrists. He wasn't an instant too fast. 
Joe was coming back. Chet lay in his original position, hands out of view. Spud cocked 
his head as Joe entered the tunnel.

"Coast is clear, Spud," said Joe, his face going bright the second he saw the money sacks. 
"The truck's out in front. How's it?"

"Swell," Spud muttered, He looked toward Chet. "We'll leave the dick in the vault for 
the cops to find. Finish him, Joe -- With a shiv!"

Chet froze. A knife. From the sound of Joe's approaching he guessed that the thickset 
thug was getting ready to carry out the order. Every nerve in Chet tightened.

He looked up. Joe was flipping out a knife blade. It glistened as he stepped up to the 
detective. His slinky eyes held no emotion. The knife hand went up; the blade started 
down on its murderous arc!


Joe never knew what happened. Chet's hands became batteringrams. His right cracked 
against Joe's chin, his left broke Joe's front teeth! The knife slipped from his hand, 
fell near Chet. He grabbed it. Joe lunged, Chet drawing back. The blade ripped the hood's 
jugular! He screamed, backed off, dazed, a hand clamping on the fatal wound.

Chet lost no time. With a single stroke of the razor-sharp knife he severed the rope 
around his ankles, kicked his feet free, then scrambled up.

Joe's scream caused Spud to turn. He saw what had happened. Roaring like a bull he 
launched himself at the detective. Chet seized the fear-stricken Joe, threw him at 
Spud. With one swipe of his arm, Spud flung Joe out of his way.

A gun, Chet's own, shone in Spud's big fist. It was leveled. Chet hurled the knife. Spud 
dropped to escape it. It was exactly what Chet counted on. He leaped in, caught hold of 
the Colt, twisting and wrenching with all his power.

Spud clung to the gun. Suddenly Chet let go, moving up. His left drilled out, his shoulder 
behind it, followed with a right to the killer's middle, Spud couldn't take punishment 
there. He backed off, his face contorted with pain. Chet crowded him, jutting piston-like 
punches to the same spot.

Spud doubled up, raised the gun. Caution seemed to have fled. But he didn't fire. Something 
in the way he looked told Chet greater peril lurked behind him. He glanced around. Dice 
Andrews was hefting the pickax, getting set to clout Chet.

Chet did the only thing left. He sprang at Spud. He guessed Dice wouldn't chance slugging 
Spud with the ax. But all this seemed as if Chet were only dragging out his agony, delaying 
the bolt of death.

Spud tagged him with a jab to the jaw. Chet thought he had been slugged with a lead pipe. 
He staggered drunkenly, tottered away, toward the cellar end of the tunnel. It was his 
lone chance of survival. Spud's laughter mocked him.

But Chet knew what he was doing He tripped over Joe's sprawled body, Down he went, flat 
on his stomach.

"You asked for it, copper, buttin' in on us," Spud rasped. "We'll leave you around so the 
other cops can give you an inspector's funeral."

Chet looked toward the drums, under the slab of steel. "You...you'll never get away with 
that money," he gasped. "You might kill me, but --"

He stopped short, utterly exhausted. He needed time, just a few more seconds. He raised 
his head. Spud and Dice were looking at each other, wondering what Chet meant. Time seemed 
to be on a holiday. Then Dice spoke.

"Don't listen to him, Spud. Can't you see he's givin' us the needle. I'll crack him with 
the ax and then we'll lam."

Spud rubbed his lantern jaw, then nodded. Dice grimaced, spat on his palms and took a good 
grip on the handle of the pickax. He came toward Chet while Spud trained the Colt unerringly, 
They weren't chancing any more of Chet's tricks.

Chet felt his throat going dry, his body growing chill. He was no coward, but he saw death 
staring at him from the snout of the Colt; he saw it perched on Dice's shoulder.


Chet thought of Martha, the house they had planned together. It wasn't to be --

His thought was punctured by a blast. The tunnel seemed to erupt! The ground churned; dirt 
pelted down upon him. There was a sustained flash. It showed the ax leaving Dice's grasp, 
being embedded in the tunnel wall. Then Dice was rammed against its sharp point.

Just before the flash died out and darkness closed in, Chet caught a glimpse of Spud 
Taylor. The killer was flat against the vault wall, his body draped over the money sacks. 
His clothes were shreds, his body charred.

Only because Chet had lain flat with Joe's body as a shield had he escaped the full fury 
of the explosion. But his face was seared and scorched, and he lay half buried in dirt. 
He began to pull himself out, then managed to crawl to the cellar. It seemed to take ages.

As he climbed out of the tunnel a police lamp appeared at the head of the cellar stairs. 
The next instant light fell upon him. A cop yelled.

"Hey, get Captain Haines. It's Chet Haywood."

"Get an ambulance, too," Chet added, leaning wearily against the cellar wall. "There's 
a guy back there we want to save for the electric chair."


Twenty minutes later, while an ambulance interne gave him first-aid treatment, Chet was 
talking to the sober-faced, gray-haired Captain Haines.

Briefly he explained how Bob Linwood, the bank guard, had focused his attention on the 
store. "When the truck drove up with the drums of gas I noticed something I didn't under-
stand. There was a pressure gauge on each drum. I knew enough about carbonated-water 
systems to realize one gauge is enough, and even that isn't necessary. So I decided to 
find out things."

Haines blinked. "Is that all you went on?"

Chet grinned. "No. Something else. When Dice Andrews yanked open the tool kit by mistake, 
I saw a pair of disks that didn't go with carbonated gas tanks."

"Disks? What kind?"

"Round dark ones. They were goggles. A special kind. The kind only oxy-acetylene workers 
wear."

"But the explosion -- how did that happen?" demanded Haines, getting impatient.

"I'm coming to that," said Chet, unhurried. "I got my hands on the torch Dice Andrews had 
been using. While he and Taylor were rifling the vault, I pulled the torch under the steel 
slab, knowing the tip of the torch was hot enough to ignite oxygen. I turned on the valve 
and rope off my wrist -- and some skin. Then I turned on the acetylene gas and pointed the 
white-hot flame at the acetylene drum itself." 

Haines stared, blurted out. "You burned a hole through the drum! When the flame reached the 
acetylene, the gas exploded!" 

Chet nodded, a bit modestly. "And not a second too soon, either." He told how Dice had 
been ready to pickax him. "Instead, he got a dose of his own medicine." 

Haines added hastily: "Taylor's going to get all he deserves, too." He stopped, puzzled. 
Chet wore a frightened look, was frantically going through his pockets. Concerned, Haines 
demanded: "What's wrong, Chet?" 

The detective blew out a sigh. He took an envelope, opened at one end, from his hip pocket. 

"My bank book, captain," he said. "I thought I'd lost it." 

He glanced around at the other cops. They were grinning broadly. Chet's grin was even 
broader. He knew he had heard the last "Turra bank" from them. 


THE END


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