Riggs is Here | Page 5

"Me," was the guy's only answer. He strode up the drive, and Carey
met him a few feet from where Tommy crouched.
The guy lit a cigarette. In the second that the match was at his face,
Tommy recognized him. He was the guy with the broken nose and
twitching mouth that Carey had talked to in the beer joint at Jones and
Turk streets. Now he said:
"He's goin' to be ready to move them furs outta town tomorrow mornin'.
About ten, usin' a Hedder Bakery truck."
Carey snapped 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,