Riggs is Here | Page 7

can't get away with this. In that car that's following us--"
Setter's eyes whipped up to his rear mirror. For one instant, when he first saw the car, his attention wavered; and the gun against Tommy's ribs drew away a fraction of an inch.
Tommy slammed his elbow back, hard. It caught Setter's wrist, pushed the gun into the upholstery. The gun went off, its slug digging into the seat. When Tommy had his hand around it, it cracked out a second time as Setter swung a blow at him with his left, and the sleeve kicking back with the recoil tore skin and flesh out of Tommy's palm.
Gripping the automatic with his bleeding hand and with his head pulled down against his chest, he battered his right into Setter's stomach, driving it with the strength of his compact shoulders. He felt the car swerve wildly, jolt up over the curb, and still he kept slugging. Setter yelled once, a strangled sound as the wind was hammered out of him.
The car crashed into a store window, hurled Tommy against the dash. When he struggled up off the floor, Setter was bent over the steering wheel, gasping, choking, both arms locked around his stomach.
The gun was still gripped in Tommy's hand. He swung it twice--short, chopping blows to Setter's head. Setter collapsed sideways, toppled against him.
Tommy stayed there, crouched down on the seat. The other car had stopped, and he heard footsteps running across the pavement. A second later, the door on his side of the car was yanked open.
It was Dipper. Over his broken nose, his eyes were narrow, alert. He was gripping a bulldog revolver.
Tommy didn't wait to see more. He swung his foot up from the floor boards. His toe slammed into Dipper's chin, whipped his head back. Then Tommy jammed his other foot into the guy's belly. Dipper shot backward, spilled onto the glass-littered sidewalk.
Tommy pulled himself out of the car. Dipper was out, unmoving on his back, but somebody else came around the back of the roadster. It was Billie, the woman who had been drinking with Setter. She was coming fast, and the street light glittered from the chromium-plated automatic in her slim hand.
Tommy dove at her. He slapped the pistol to one side, pistoned his fist to her chin.
Tommy was talking into the green call box, half a block from the wrecked car. Lieutenant Barnelley of the homicide squad was on the other end of the phone. Tommy was telling him:
"Sure! I got the whole crowd that tuck up the warehouse. One of the guys, George Setter, had the gun that killed Pop Dillon. And I got the furs."
Barnelley said: "O. K." The radio cops loaded the three unconscious forms into the back of their prowl car and left Tommy there on the corner.
When Barnelley picked him up, he was grinning in spite of his torn hand and bruises. "I really cracked a mob for you boys tonight. The furs are out at 193 Melbourne. Maybe you'd better get out there in a hurry before something happens to them."
Barnelley grinned as he shot the car down the street. "You ought to get your job with Carey after this." When Tommy just grunted at that, he went on: "Only you don't have to worry about anything happening to those furs. They're fake--rabbit and squirrel."
"What!"
"That's right," Barnelley told him. "Carey had a tip that the stuff was going to be lifted, so he sneaked the good fur out of the warehouse early tonight and planted it in his garage. The stuff he left in its place was just a lot of fancy junk."
"He... he what?"
Barnelley laughed softly. "Not that you didn't do a good job, but we were ready to crack down on Setter tomorrow. We knew all about him, though we thought he was working alone. Carey figured him quite a while ago as the egg who'd been pulling these jobs; so he got a couple of his agents up here from the south, a man and his sister. The girl got to work on Setter, got him so he was shooting his mouth off to her."
"This guy--this agent of Carey's," Tommy's voice was weak. "What'd they call him? Dipper?"
"Yeah!"
"Oh," Tommy said. Then: "Go on!"
"Well that's about all," Barnelley said. "The only thing that went wrong was Pop Dillon getting killed. The poor old boy must have got panicky and gone for his gun or something. We didn't know where Setter hid the furs, but Carey's agents and a couple of my boys were watching him, ready to jump him as soon as he tried to move them."
"I see." Tommy put his hand on the door handle. "Look, lieutenant, I better get out here. You can go on to that address without me. I... I guess I