“I've got some stuff stored here,” said Charlie quickly. “I've got to get some of it out tonight.”
“You're outta luck, buddy.”
“It's just a couple small things. Won't take a minute. I can carry 'em in my arms. Come on, gimme a break.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, “Come in the office till I see who you are and what you want. Keep those hands up!”
Charlie sidled past the shotgun. Walt Harper came around the corner of the doorway in a quick, silent movement. He lunged toward the guard. His right arm made a swift, chopping motion as he went forward and the barrel of his .38 whipped down on the man's head.
He stepped forward and slipped his hands under the fellow's arms, supporting him as his knees buckled. As if by prearranged signal, Charlie spun about and grabbed the shotgun before it clattered to the floor. Harper heeled the door shut, remained motionless with his burden as Charlie moved the few feet to the office door and swung into the dim glow with the shotgun held ready.
“O.K.,” he said.
Harper dragged his burden into the small office and lowered the man into a chair in one corner of the room. He went back to the outer door, slipped the heavy metal bar in place securely, and returned to the office.
THE unconscious man in the chair was slender, an inch or so shorter than Harper. He wore a gray cap and trousers, and a brown suede jacket.
Harper said, “Help me get this jacket off.” Charlie held the man while Harper pulled off the garment. He slipped out of his own coat, put on the jacket, substituted the cap for his hat. He stepped past a small desk to a door that opened into a closet. Rummaging there for a moment, he came back with a short length of rope and a piece of insulated wire.
In another minute the man was securely trussed and gagged. The two detectives carried him to the closet, shut the door, and turned the key in the lock.
“Now what?” Charlie asked.
Harper didn't answer for a moment. He let his glance drift about the room. He took his coat, folded it up, placed this and his hat in a lower drawer of the desk. Then he sat down in front of the desk and picked up the telephone directory. He found his number, marked it with his index finger, looked up at Charlie, and said:
“There's a fellow by the name of George Dunlap out in our town that gypped me out of a thousand bucks. I want it. Maybe I'll get it tonight. Anyway, I got an idea and I'm going to try it.”
He picked up the telephone, gave his number. A moment later he said, “Louis? . . . They want you down at the warehouse right away. . . . Yeah. . . . In the office on the ground floor.” He hung up the receiver.
Charlie's round face was somber. The color in his fat cheeks became a shade paler. “It's all right for you to stick your nose in a mess of trouble,” he said slowly, “but I live here. This guy Wyman's liable to cramp my style.”
Harper's eyes were thoughtful. He caught his underlip in firm teeth, looked down at the desk, then back at Charlie. “Yeah,” he said, “that's right.” Then he smiled. “But I guess I can keep you out of it.”
The telephone bell shrilled. Harper's grin was thin as he picked up the receiver. “This'll be Wyman calling back.”
He said, “Yeah? . . . Sure I called you. . . . I don't know. They just told me to tell you to come to the front office.” He hung up, cutting off a clicking in the diaphragm of the receiver that told of a voice which was still talking.
HARPER waited a minute, then gave another number. He said, “Galpin? . . . Harper. I'm down at the warehouse. You don't need to worry about that warrant. Bring about a dozen men down here. Charlie Buckley'll be waiting for you. He'll tell you what to do.”
Harper leaned back in the chair, fell silent while he brushed his mustache with an index finger. Then he said, “Stick here till I frisk Wyman—if he comes. You can stay behind the door so he won't see you. Then go out and meet Galpin. He won't crash this place without a warrant. Have him put about four men in front, a couple more in back. There may be another way out of here, so tell him to string a couple men on the corner and on that other street. He don't have to bust in here unless he hears some shooting. But be damn sure he doesn't let anybody out.”
A silence settled over the little office as Harper finished; a silence that continued, unbroken, until a knock sounded on the steel street door.
Harper jumped to his feet, picked up the shotgun. “Get out your roscoe, Charlie! You open the door for me—stay behind it until I line 'em up!”
The two men went quickly into the hall. Harper stood about four feet in front of the door and raised the shotgun; Charlie stepped forward, pulled back the bar, and drew the door inward, keeping behind it.
Louis Wyman and a short, heavyset man stood in the opening.
Harper said, “Hello, Louis. Put 'em up!”
Wyman's hands went up immediately. The other man hesitated an instant, staring at the gaping muzzle of the shotgun. Then he withdrew his hand from a bulging pocket and lifted both arms. Harper backed up, and without a command the two men stepped in, took three steps forward and turned into the office.
“Up against the wall,” said Harper, and his voice was cold. “And if I were you I wouldn't turn my head.”
Charlie came up beside Harper, who handed him the shotgun. Then Harper stepped forward, slid his hands over Wyman's body. There was no weapon on him, but he found a .45 automatic on the short man. He stepped back and motioned Charlie from the room. The outer door clanged shut.
Wyman said, “You're certainly digging a grave for yourself, Harper.”
