Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

Начало книги

Gangdom’s guns spit death when Tug Norton undertakes to guard Flash Santelle, the million dollar crook.

The freckled youth who may be found on duty in the reception room of the Kaw Valley offices, when not more agreeably engaged, ambled into my private room one morning and dropped a card on my desk.

“Old gent,” he remarked. “White hair; blue eyes. Looks like a million smackers. Better see him, boss. He’s meat-on-the-table.”

I glanced at the card:

Memory clicked to the surname, Santelle, but Cato didn’t register. The Santelle whom every cop in the town was worrying over, regulars and privates, bore the given name of Cletus. Of course there might easily be other Santelles around, though the name was not by any means a common one.

“Dish the meat up, Spec,” I ordered. “And don’t spill the gravy.”

Spec gave me a wise look, and vanished. A moment later Mr. Cato Santelle came in. Amplifying Spec’s description, I’ll say that he was a benevolent looking old gentleman who bore many marks of prosperity prominently exposed, among them being a diamond stud of three-carat proportions, a platinum watch chain, and a gold-headed stick.

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