Bunched Knuckles

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Big Jim Grood looked up in surprise, as a sunburned young man in the early thirties entered his office with quick, springy steps.

“Hell,” Grood said, with the bluntness of a man who had spent years on the metropolitan police force, “I thought you were down in Florida catching swordfish.”

Jax Bowman smiled. “I was, but I couldn’t get any kick out of it.”

Big Jim Grood swung around in the swivel chair. His right hand, a battered mass of bony knuckles, shot out to squeeze the right hand of the younger man. “What do you mean, ‘no kick in it’?” he asked.

The bronzed features of the young millionaire twisted into a grin. “A while back,” he said, “when you came to me with that idea of financing a central bureau of crime detection, I thought the idea was worth a trial, but that was about all. Now I’m getting all enthused over it. Nothing else gives me any kick.”

“That’s because you decided to smash the crooks after solving mysteries,” Grood answered. “It ain’t the detection you get the thrill out of, it’s the action. When you got the idea of putting on black masks, with white rings painted around the eyes, and busting up organized underworld, I thought you were crazy. I still don’t see why we have to have such goofy masks.”

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