New York city, 1940.
A light but steady rain was falling, making the night a nasty one to be out roaming the streets. The man in the battered fedora and trench coat walked down the almost deserted street hunched over against the wet night. Once in a while he stopped and gazed in the windows of the closed business as if window shopping, while leaning on the blackthorn walking stick he carried. He'd been a police officer, but a bullet to the leg had shattered the bone, crippling him just enough to retire him from the force. Now he made a living as a P.I. In the dark glass, he could make out the figures of the two men that were following him on the other side of the street. He kept track of them by the reflection in the windows and the yellow light of the mist shrouded street lights.
Suddenly he ducked down the mouth of an alley, disapearing from view. He ran lightly limping down the alley till he found a shallow alcove by some trash cans and a basement stairwell. As he ducked in, he listened, and heard the running footsteps coming fast. He got ready, and luck was with him as he swung the blackthorn stick, catching the running man right in the temple with the root knob handle as he came abreast of the alcove. The running man was knocked cold, and the the P.I. in the trench coat pulled the unconcious man out of sight.
Searching him quickly, he found a .32 caliber Walther in the right coat pocket, where the other man had held his hand. Taking out a small brown bone handle pocket knife, he cut a strip off the unconcious mans raincoat, and bound his hands behind him. With a moan of pain, the bound man came to, and the man in the fedora was kneeling over him, with the knife in his hand.
"So, you were gonna shoot me and get it over with, Huh? Who put you up to it? Mueller?" asked the P.I. in the fedora.
"Go to hell, you're a dead man! My partner is at the end of the alley, he's going to get you if you get by me. You'll never stop us now. You're too late, Mueller has what he came for."
Don't bet on it sonny, the games not over yet. Where's Mueller now?" asked the P.I. with the knife. As he spoke, he put the tip of the knife at the lower eyelid of the bound man laying on the wet pavement. "Tell me or I'll take your eyes out. You can read all about your precious fatherland in braille."
"Nein, you Americans are too soft, you wouldn't. Besides, my partner is going to be coming now that he hasn't seen me for a few minutes." said the German.
The man in the fedora hat knew he had only a minute left, if that. Any time now the other would start to wonder what was taking so long. He pushed the point of the knife into the eyelid enough to draw blood. He saw fear appear in the german agents eyes.
"Talk fast or so help me God, you'll have a white cane when I'm done with you! Where's Mueller?"
He pushed harder with the sharp tip of the small pocket knife, and blood flowed from the eyelid.
"Nein, Nein, not my eyes!" pleaded the spy, his courage suddenly deserting him in face of a sharp knife in the eyes. Terror of being blind took over.
"Mueller is going to the docks, there's a frieghter leaving at midnight on the tide, bound for Hamburg. Please, don't take my eyes!"
"Say goodnight, Heinie." said the P.I. as he slammed the German agents head into the dirty cement. He risked a glance around the corner of the alcove and saw the figure of a raincoated man at the head of the alley.
Looking around franticly at the dead end alley, he searched for escape. He tried the door at the bottom of the stairwell, and it was locked, but he took the pocket knife, and stooped down and peered at the lock. He took out the smaller pen blade and worked the blade into the space between the door and the frame. He got the tip to work back the spring loaded locking latch, and the door opened. Stepping quickly through, he gently closed the door behind him and locked it again.
He was now in a linen supply that was closed for the night, and he prayed there was no night watchmen. Finding the stairs, he made his way to the front of the building and unlocked the door and stepped out on the street. There was no sign of the other German, and he guessed he had gone down the alley and was at that moment finding his friend. With not a moment to waste, the man walked the other way and hailed a passing taxi.
"Where to mister?"
"Get me to the docks, fast." he leaned forward and gave the cabby a bill. "There's another one of those for you if you get me there in 15 minutes."
The cabby looked at the size of the bill and grinned.
"Sure mister! For that kind of dough, I'll make this heap fly!"
The cabby was good at his word, and they wove through the light traffic at a fast pace. In the back seat, the man in the fedora hat took a card from his wallet, and a short stub of a pencil, and wrote on the back of it. When they got to the docks, he leaned over and gave the cabby the other bill, and the card.
"Do me a big favor, will ya? Give this guy a call, and tell him Sam's got a line on the guy Mueller they've been looking for. Tell him I'm down here and they have to get her in the next half hour or he's gone, understand? And tell him to bring the cavalry."
The cabby looked at the card, and then at the man in the back seat.
"You Sam? You want me to call the G-men?"
"Yeah, that's me. You better do this, cause it means alot. There's a guy on that boat that's an enemy of this country, and if he gets out of here, it's gonna be some real bad news, got it? I don't know what I'm gonna do, but I'm gonna try to slow up that boat from leaving, see?"
"Okay Sam. There's a gas station at the end of the road, and I know there's a phone booth there. I'll go make the call. You can count on me, it ain't often one of the little guys gets to do something to make a difference."
"Thanks pal. I'm counting on ya!" Sam told the cabby.
Sam got out of the cab, and the old taxi pulled off. He walked down the row of docks, keeping in the shadows, till he got to a dock with a small tramp steamer. The name on the bow was Pride of Emden. From the looks of things, they were already making preparations for getting underway.
Quickly, Sam looked around to see what was at hand. An old truck stood parked by the side of a warehouse, and there was the usual litter of trash around the sides of buildings. He studied the dirty pavement, and soon found what he was looking for; an empty whiskey bottle.
Ducking down and staying low, he ran over and crawled under the old flat bed truck. Moving forward he found where the fuel line went up to the engine, and found the rubber hose. Taking out his bone handle pocket knife, he cut into the fuel line and gas dribbled out. He held the whiskey bottle under the fuel leak till it was almost full, then stuffed his handkerchief into the opening. Crawling out from under the truck, he hunted around some more, till he found some rope coiled up by the head of another dock that was empty of a ship. Taking his pocket knife, he cut off a long length of rope, and tied one end to his makeshift Molotov cocktail. Going back to the dock where the German ship was getting ready to sail, he turned the bottle upside down, and waited till the cotton handkerchief was moist with gasoline. Using his Zippo lighter, he lit the cocktail, and started to swing it around in a circle on the rope, building up momentum.
On the Pride Of Emden there was a sudden shout at the sight of a twirling flame, and somebody yelled at Sam. Sam paid no mind, then with the Molotov whirling at high speed, the wind fanning the flame at the mouth of the bottle, he let go of the rope. The cocktail arced over the water to the fo'csal of the freighter and burst into flame. The spattering burning gasoline set fire to a coil of mooring line, and some wooden boxes. Somebody on the freighter set off the fire alarms, and crewmen rushed to put out the fire. Sam was admiring his handywork, when another shout rang out, calling his name. Then a shot hit the crates next to him, and he ducked down. There standing on the gangway of the ship was Mueller, with a Walther P-38 in his hand.
"You've meddled for the last time you bastard! I'll kill you for this!" he yelled, firing another shot at Sam. Sam took out the .32 Walther he'd taken from the other German agent and shot back. The round glanced off the steel railing right next to Mueller, making him duck down. They traded shots, and Sam was down to his last round when he heard the sirens approaching. The cabby had made the call, and the cavalry was coming.
Later, while the fed's crawled all over the ship, a police captain who knew him came over to him.
"Hello Sam. You've really stirred up a hornest nest tonight!"
"Hello McEvoy. Yeah, well it seemed like a good idea to keep the ship here. The fed guy thanked me for it. Are we done here?" Sam asked.
"Well, I guess they'll want to talk to ya in the morning, after they sweat this Mueller guy for a bit. Ya done good tonight for a P.I. Go ahead and blow, I'll cover it with the fed guys for ya." said Captain McEvoy.
Sam started walking away, limping slightly on the blackthorn stick.
"Leg still bother ya, Sam?" asked MacAvoy.
"Just a bit, when I've been doing alot of running around like tonight. I think I'll stick to simple divorce cases for a while. I'm gettin a bit too old for all this exitment!
Sam stopped off at the bar on the corner of the block where he lived. It was almost closing time, but they let him in.
"Your usual, Sam?" asked a pretty blond behind the bar.
Sam swirled the Bourban whiskey around the ice cube, and then enjoyed the cool burn down his throat. Then he noticed an emtpy coffee mug on the bar, and he took out his little bone handle pocket knife, and gave it a honing on the bottom of the mug.
"You look like hell Sam. Like ya been crawling in alleys." said the barmaid. "And why are you sharpening your pocket knife on one of my mugs?"
"It's been a hell of a night for both of us, sweetheart."
A light but steady rain was falling, making the night a nasty one to be out roaming the streets. The man in the battered fedora and trench coat walked down the almost deserted street hunched over against the wet night. Once in a while he stopped and gazed in the windows of the closed business as if window shopping, while leaning on the blackthorn walking stick he carried. He'd been a police officer, but a bullet to the leg had shattered the bone, crippling him just enough to retire him from the force. Now he made a living as a P.I. In the dark glass, he could make out the figures of the two men that were following him on the other side of the street. He kept track of them by the reflection in the windows and the yellow light of the mist shrouded street lights.
Suddenly he ducked down the mouth of an alley, disapearing from view. He ran lightly limping down the alley till he found a shallow alcove by some trash cans and a basement stairwell. As he ducked in, he listened, and heard the running footsteps coming fast. He got ready, and luck was with him as he swung the blackthorn stick, catching the running man right in the temple with the root knob handle as he came abreast of the alcove. The running man was knocked cold, and the the P.I. in the trench coat pulled the unconcious man out of sight.
Searching him quickly, he found a .32 caliber Walther in the right coat pocket, where the other man had held his hand. Taking out a small brown bone handle pocket knife, he cut a strip off the unconcious mans raincoat, and bound his hands behind him. With a moan of pain, the bound man came to, and the man in the fedora was kneeling over him, with the knife in his hand.
"So, you were gonna shoot me and get it over with, Huh? Who put you up to it? Mueller?" asked the P.I. in the fedora.
"Go to hell, you're a dead man! My partner is at the end of the alley, he's going to get you if you get by me. You'll never stop us now. You're too late, Mueller has what he came for."
Don't bet on it sonny, the games not over yet. Where's Mueller now?" asked the P.I. with the knife. As he spoke, he put the tip of the knife at the lower eyelid of the bound man laying on the wet pavement. "Tell me or I'll take your eyes out. You can read all about your precious fatherland in braille."
"Nein, you Americans are too soft, you wouldn't. Besides, my partner is going to be coming now that he hasn't seen me for a few minutes." said the German.
The man in the fedora hat knew he had only a minute left, if that. Any time now the other would start to wonder what was taking so long. He pushed the point of the knife into the eyelid enough to draw blood. He saw fear appear in the german agents eyes.
"Talk fast or so help me God, you'll have a white cane when I'm done with you! Where's Mueller?"
He pushed harder with the sharp tip of the small pocket knife, and blood flowed from the eyelid.
"Nein, Nein, not my eyes!" pleaded the spy, his courage suddenly deserting him in face of a sharp knife in the eyes. Terror of being blind took over.
"Mueller is going to the docks, there's a frieghter leaving at midnight on the tide, bound for Hamburg. Please, don't take my eyes!"
"Say goodnight, Heinie." said the P.I. as he slammed the German agents head into the dirty cement. He risked a glance around the corner of the alcove and saw the figure of a raincoated man at the head of the alley.
Looking around franticly at the dead end alley, he searched for escape. He tried the door at the bottom of the stairwell, and it was locked, but he took the pocket knife, and stooped down and peered at the lock. He took out the smaller pen blade and worked the blade into the space between the door and the frame. He got the tip to work back the spring loaded locking latch, and the door opened. Stepping quickly through, he gently closed the door behind him and locked it again.
He was now in a linen supply that was closed for the night, and he prayed there was no night watchmen. Finding the stairs, he made his way to the front of the building and unlocked the door and stepped out on the street. There was no sign of the other German, and he guessed he had gone down the alley and was at that moment finding his friend. With not a moment to waste, the man walked the other way and hailed a passing taxi.
"Where to mister?"
"Get me to the docks, fast." he leaned forward and gave the cabby a bill. "There's another one of those for you if you get me there in 15 minutes."
The cabby looked at the size of the bill and grinned.
"Sure mister! For that kind of dough, I'll make this heap fly!"
The cabby was good at his word, and they wove through the light traffic at a fast pace. In the back seat, the man in the fedora hat took a card from his wallet, and a short stub of a pencil, and wrote on the back of it. When they got to the docks, he leaned over and gave the cabby the other bill, and the card.
"Do me a big favor, will ya? Give this guy a call, and tell him Sam's got a line on the guy Mueller they've been looking for. Tell him I'm down here and they have to get her in the next half hour or he's gone, understand? And tell him to bring the cavalry."
The cabby looked at the card, and then at the man in the back seat.
"You Sam? You want me to call the G-men?"
"Yeah, that's me. You better do this, cause it means alot. There's a guy on that boat that's an enemy of this country, and if he gets out of here, it's gonna be some real bad news, got it? I don't know what I'm gonna do, but I'm gonna try to slow up that boat from leaving, see?"
"Okay Sam. There's a gas station at the end of the road, and I know there's a phone booth there. I'll go make the call. You can count on me, it ain't often one of the little guys gets to do something to make a difference."
"Thanks pal. I'm counting on ya!" Sam told the cabby.
Sam got out of the cab, and the old taxi pulled off. He walked down the row of docks, keeping in the shadows, till he got to a dock with a small tramp steamer. The name on the bow was Pride of Emden. From the looks of things, they were already making preparations for getting underway.
Quickly, Sam looked around to see what was at hand. An old truck stood parked by the side of a warehouse, and there was the usual litter of trash around the sides of buildings. He studied the dirty pavement, and soon found what he was looking for; an empty whiskey bottle.
Ducking down and staying low, he ran over and crawled under the old flat bed truck. Moving forward he found where the fuel line went up to the engine, and found the rubber hose. Taking out his bone handle pocket knife, he cut into the fuel line and gas dribbled out. He held the whiskey bottle under the fuel leak till it was almost full, then stuffed his handkerchief into the opening. Crawling out from under the truck, he hunted around some more, till he found some rope coiled up by the head of another dock that was empty of a ship. Taking his pocket knife, he cut off a long length of rope, and tied one end to his makeshift Molotov cocktail. Going back to the dock where the German ship was getting ready to sail, he turned the bottle upside down, and waited till the cotton handkerchief was moist with gasoline. Using his Zippo lighter, he lit the cocktail, and started to swing it around in a circle on the rope, building up momentum.
On the Pride Of Emden there was a sudden shout at the sight of a twirling flame, and somebody yelled at Sam. Sam paid no mind, then with the Molotov whirling at high speed, the wind fanning the flame at the mouth of the bottle, he let go of the rope. The cocktail arced over the water to the fo'csal of the freighter and burst into flame. The spattering burning gasoline set fire to a coil of mooring line, and some wooden boxes. Somebody on the freighter set off the fire alarms, and crewmen rushed to put out the fire. Sam was admiring his handywork, when another shout rang out, calling his name. Then a shot hit the crates next to him, and he ducked down. There standing on the gangway of the ship was Mueller, with a Walther P-38 in his hand.
"You've meddled for the last time you bastard! I'll kill you for this!" he yelled, firing another shot at Sam. Sam took out the .32 Walther he'd taken from the other German agent and shot back. The round glanced off the steel railing right next to Mueller, making him duck down. They traded shots, and Sam was down to his last round when he heard the sirens approaching. The cabby had made the call, and the cavalry was coming.
Later, while the fed's crawled all over the ship, a police captain who knew him came over to him.
"Hello Sam. You've really stirred up a hornest nest tonight!"
"Hello McEvoy. Yeah, well it seemed like a good idea to keep the ship here. The fed guy thanked me for it. Are we done here?" Sam asked.
"Well, I guess they'll want to talk to ya in the morning, after they sweat this Mueller guy for a bit. Ya done good tonight for a P.I. Go ahead and blow, I'll cover it with the fed guys for ya." said Captain McEvoy.
Sam started walking away, limping slightly on the blackthorn stick.
"Leg still bother ya, Sam?" asked MacAvoy.
"Just a bit, when I've been doing alot of running around like tonight. I think I'll stick to simple divorce cases for a while. I'm gettin a bit too old for all this exitment!
Sam stopped off at the bar on the corner of the block where he lived. It was almost closing time, but they let him in.
"Your usual, Sam?" asked a pretty blond behind the bar.
Sam swirled the Bourban whiskey around the ice cube, and then enjoyed the cool burn down his throat. Then he noticed an emtpy coffee mug on the bar, and he took out his little bone handle pocket knife, and gave it a honing on the bottom of the mug.
"You look like hell Sam. Like ya been crawling in alleys." said the barmaid. "And why are you sharpening your pocket knife on one of my mugs?"
"It's been a hell of a night for both of us, sweetheart."
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And when he was near the docks, didn't the salt air cause his non-stainless knife to melt from corrosion!? 
