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Authors: Harry Whittington
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Later, Terravasi did the same thing. And he had known they were right. It wasn’t going to help him to fight until he knew what he was fighting.
Well, there had to be an answer somewhere. If Arrenhower had had anything to do with Stella’s death, it had to begin with Arrenhower’s finding out that Blake was a spy, didn’t it?
How could he find out? How?
He got up and paced the room. His shoulder brushed the filing cabinet drawer that he’d left standing open. He thrust it back. It flopped open again, because the lock was broken. Bricker was going to raise hell about that. Bricker —
He wanted to retch. It was as though a hand grasped at his belly and shook it until he was sick.
He stared at Bricker’s desk. He began to see Bricker as his partner had been yesterday afternoon when he arrived in the office. Bricker had been nervous as hell. He hadn’t thought anything about it at the time. He’d thought it was because tight-mouthed little Prue Quincy had hot pants in the outer office.
Bricker had practically sprinted back to his desk. Fumbled around while he talked. And locked something in his desk drawer.
Calmly and coldly, Blake went around Bricker’s desk and sat down. He tested the drawer. It was still locked. His heart had begun to slug hard against his ribs.
First, Blake decided to pick the lock. Then he shook his head. Hell no. Let Bricker know the truth. He had been through Bricker’s desk.
With a sharp thrust of the heel of his hands, he broke the second of Bricker’s locks.
But he didn’t have to go through Bricker’s desk. The papers were there just as Bricker had fumbled them together and shoved them into his drawer yesterday afternoon.
One letter was from Dickerson. Terse, brief, it was dated Friday. It simply terminated any agreement between Dickerson and Bricker & Blake, Confidential Investigations.
Dickerson had called it off on Friday!
Sick at his stomach, Blake remembered how Bricker had smiled when Blake had said he was through on the Dickerson job.
His fingers were trembling slightly as he read the other brief note. It was bold as hell. It was on Arrenhower stationery. It was written, scrawlingly, in ink and unsigned. Simply, “Enclosed. For value received.”
7
BLAKE HEARD the outer door of the office opened and closed.
A smile, grim as the outskirts of hell, sat on his lips. He sat back with the two letters in his hands. He heard the footsteps across the outer office, heard the humming. Then the inner door was shoved open.
The humming stopped. Bricker’s mouth stayed open. His eyes widened. The blood crept down out of his face.
“Did you mess in your pants, Bricker?” Blake inquired. “I hope you didn’t. You’re a big boy now.”
“What — are you doing here?”
“Reading. Waiting. Wondering what in the hell. What made you do it?”
Bricker took another step into the office. Plainly, he was sick at his stomach.
“It was over, Steve. Finished. There wasn’t any choice.”
“What do you mean, there wasn’t any choice? I’m your partner. I was your partner. You sold me out.”
Bricker took another step forward. “Look, Steve. Look at it this way. For the past five years or so, it’s all been investigations of companies like Arrenhower’s, who’ve been cheating on the government. Right? The government couldn’t hit hard enough at profiteers and chiselers. Right? So they wanted Arrenhower investigated, because the small businessmen who supplied his raw materials wanted him investigated. Is that still right?”
“You’re talking, Bricker.”
Bricker dampened his lips. “But now there is a war scare. It’s like the early forties all over again. The government needs the big plants. To hell with investigations. They’re kissing the big boys again. The people being exploited can go to hell. If they howl, the government don’t like it. They’re unpatriotic; they’re practically Commies. So that’s what happened, Steve.”
“Talk sense.”
“But
Well, there had to be an answer somewhere. If Arrenhower had had anything to do with Stella’s death, it had to begin with Arrenhower’s finding out that Blake was a spy, didn’t it?
How could he find out? How?
He got up and paced the room. His shoulder brushed the filing cabinet drawer that he’d left standing open. He thrust it back. It flopped open again, because the lock was broken. Bricker was going to raise hell about that. Bricker —
He wanted to retch. It was as though a hand grasped at his belly and shook it until he was sick.
He stared at Bricker’s desk. He began to see Bricker as his partner had been yesterday afternoon when he arrived in the office. Bricker had been nervous as hell. He hadn’t thought anything about it at the time. He’d thought it was because tight-mouthed little Prue Quincy had hot pants in the outer office.
Bricker had practically sprinted back to his desk. Fumbled around while he talked. And locked something in his desk drawer.
Calmly and coldly, Blake went around Bricker’s desk and sat down. He tested the drawer. It was still locked. His heart had begun to slug hard against his ribs.
First, Blake decided to pick the lock. Then he shook his head. Hell no. Let Bricker know the truth. He had been through Bricker’s desk.
With a sharp thrust of the heel of his hands, he broke the second of Bricker’s locks.
But he didn’t have to go through Bricker’s desk. The papers were there just as Bricker had fumbled them together and shoved them into his drawer yesterday afternoon.
One letter was from Dickerson. Terse, brief, it was dated Friday. It simply terminated any agreement between Dickerson and Bricker & Blake, Confidential Investigations.
Dickerson had called it off on Friday!
Sick at his stomach, Blake remembered how Bricker had smiled when Blake had said he was through on the Dickerson job.
His fingers were trembling slightly as he read the other brief note. It was bold as hell. It was on Arrenhower stationery. It was written, scrawlingly, in ink and unsigned. Simply, “Enclosed. For value received.”
7
BLAKE HEARD the outer door of the office opened and closed.
A smile, grim as the outskirts of hell, sat on his lips. He sat back with the two letters in his hands. He heard the footsteps across the outer office, heard the humming. Then the inner door was shoved open.
The humming stopped. Bricker’s mouth stayed open. His eyes widened. The blood crept down out of his face.
“Did you mess in your pants, Bricker?” Blake inquired. “I hope you didn’t. You’re a big boy now.”
“What — are you doing here?”
“Reading. Waiting. Wondering what in the hell. What made you do it?”
Bricker took another step into the office. Plainly, he was sick at his stomach.
“It was over, Steve. Finished. There wasn’t any choice.”
“What do you mean, there wasn’t any choice? I’m your partner. I was your partner. You sold me out.”
Bricker took another step forward. “Look, Steve. Look at it this way. For the past five years or so, it’s all been investigations of companies like Arrenhower’s, who’ve been cheating on the government. Right? The government couldn’t hit hard enough at profiteers and chiselers. Right? So they wanted Arrenhower investigated, because the small businessmen who supplied his raw materials wanted him investigated. Is that still right?”
“You’re talking, Bricker.”
Bricker dampened his lips. “But now there is a war scare. It’s like the early forties all over again. The government needs the big plants. To hell with investigations. They’re kissing the big boys again. The people being exploited can go to hell. If they howl, the government don’t like it. They’re unpatriotic; they’re practically Commies. So that’s what happened, Steve.”
“Talk sense.”
“But
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