Riggs is Here | Page 5

his words out: "O. K.! I'll be ready! You beat it now."
The guy left, slouching down the driveway. When the sound of his leather heels had faded, Carey went to his porch and into the house.
"I'll be damned!" Tommy muttered into the leaves of the hedge. "I'd never've believed it of him. Carey a crook! I'd never've thought it." He shook his head.
Lights in the back of Carey's house went on. Tommy watched them, squatting on the ground, waiting patiently until at last they blinked off. He waited after that until he thought Carey would be asleep. Then he went back to the garage.
He was wondering, why should the doors be locked? Why did Carey leave his car outside? The padlock was heavy, a Yale, and to tear it loose would make a racket to wake the dead.
What he did next scared him to think about--so he did it without thinking. He found a window in Carey's house that was open, cut the screen, and climbed in. With his heart bouncing in his throat, he sent out a pin of light from a pencil flash, found he had climbed into the dining room.
With his shoes under his arm, he tip-toed back through the house. The door to Carey's bedroom was open. He stood there listening to the detective's deep, steady breathing.
He got into and out of that room safely, Carey's pants clutched in his hand. Back in the dining room he went through the pockets and found what he wanted--a ring of keys.
At the garage, he picked out the key that opened the lock. The click of it and then the creak of doors as he slid them sounded in his ears like a roar that could be heard for blocks.
They were there! At the back of the garage, wrapped first in canvas and then in cotton sheeting, were the furs, a bulky pile of soft, glossy pelts. What had Barnelley said? Thirty thousand dollars' worth? Forty thousand? Sable and mink strapped into tight bundles, silver fox--Tommy sucked in his breath.
He grinned a little at what he did next. There was a workbench against one wall, with tools on it. He picked up a husky monkey wrench and walked out of the garage with it. He swung the wrench against the windshield of Carey's car.
This time he didn't have to wait long. Hidden around behind the corner of the garage, he heard the front door open, a faint slap-slap of slippered feet, Carey's curse as he saw the shattered windshield, and then the sound of the garage doors grating open.
Tommy slipped around the corner. Carey, a revolver in one hand, a flashlight in the other, was shouldering in through the doors. Tommy rushed up on him, swung the wrench.

"Now I guess you wish you'd given me a job." Tommy was sitting on the work bench, Carey's .38/44 in his hand. Carey, down on the floor in his pajamas, was bound hand, foot and mouth with mechanic's tape. He lay motionless, his eyes slots of rage.
"If you'd given me a job you could've put me to work on something else," Tommy said. "Instead of that--well, now look at you. A guy like you a crook! A killer too!" He balanced the gun in his hand. "I oughta drill you like you did poor old Pop Dillon."
He stared thoughtfully back at the pile of furs. "Murdering a guy for that! You low rat! It makes me sorta sick to think that I ever wanted to work for you. But I got you now--plenty--and the two of us'll just stay here until your pals come around with their bakery truck."
On the floor Carey started thrashing around. Incoherent sounds of rage came out through his nose.
"Take it easy," Tommy advised. "Me, I don't like waiting any more than you do. I--" Suddenly he jumped down from the workbench. "On second thought, I guess I won't have to wait!"
He went out and locked the doors of the garage behind him. He put the heavy gun in his pocket, and it felt large against his side as he strode down the drive.
IT was nearly three in the morning, but there was plenty of spots that didn't bother with the two-o'clock closing law. Tommy made the rounds of them, and in each place he asked:
"Do you know a little guy with a broken nose and a way of jerking up the side of his mouth? A little thin guy that looks like that?"
"No, Tommy," was the answer in the first four places. And then in the Red Rooster the bartender said:
"Yeah, I guess I know who you're talking about. A cheesy little bum. Dipper, the boys call him. Just a cheap punk. I don't know where you'd find him. He hangs around here some, but I ain't