The Crime Master

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“ALL right, inspector. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

The stocky man hung up the receiver of the telephone. Dark eyes peered from his swarthy face as he turned from the corner of the little East Side store. He stared at the proprietor, a dull-faced old fellow who was standing, stooped, behind a decrepit counter.

The old man blinked back. He showed no signs of intelligence. The swarthy man grinned. With a shift of his shoulders, he buttoned his light overcoat and stalked from the dilapidated shop, out into the night.

The old man watched, hands on the counter. He came cautiously forward. He reached the door and peered out along the street. He could see the striding form of the man who had departed. He went back to the corner of his shop, deposited a nickel in the coin box and dialed.

A voice clicked through the receiver. The old man spoke, in a crackly eager tone:

“He just left here… Yes… Joe Cardona, the dick… No, he ain’t going back to headquarters… Going to see the police commissioner, that’s what…”

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