RICHARD SALE (1911-1993)

With his profession providing a passport into many spheres of life, the newspaperman is a stock character in pulp detective fiction. Sometimes referred to as ‘surrogate sleuths,’ journalists use their skills to search out the truth and solve crimes, even though they are neither police professionals nor amateur detectives. One of the best-known reporter heroes is Joe ‘Daffy’ Dill, the creation of Richard Sale, who drew on his own early experience as a New York reporter to craft his crime stories.
Sale soon left the world of journalism for a career in popular writing that mirrored the development of the various media. He got his start in the pulp magazines of the 1930’s, including Detective Fiction Weekly, Argosy, Double Detective, and Baffling Detective, turning out some forty-six short stories featuring Dill. In the 1940’s, he began to write for the burgeoning ‘slicks’: his series character Lieutenant Alec Mason solved cases set in type on the glossy pages of the Saturday Evening Post, Esquire, and Blue Book. During the 1940’s, too, he turned out the bulk of his longer fiction, including six novels and a collection of novelettes. Another novelette collection followed in 1950, another mystery novel appeared in 1971, and he published a mainstream novel in 1975.
In the interim, Sale had turned his talents to screenwriting and directing. His screenplays demonstrated versatility and allowed him to indulge his passion for writing snappy dialogue. He wrote several screenplays with Mary Loos and others, ranging from Westerns to sports sagas to suspense yarns. His directing career blossomed during the 1950’s, and then he began to write for television series, including Yancy Derringer and The FBI.
Typical of the time and the medium, Sale’s pulp fiction is chiefly composed of dialogue. Animated exchanges are enlivened with exclamations. The repartee is quick, spiced with wisecracks, and leavened with humour. The characters ‘snap’ at one another. And the delivery of information is expressed in a vernacular that could only be American: “Listen, my little rattlesnake... I just put the bite on Rigo.”
Sale’s hero is no stranger to violence. Despite his light-hearted nickname, Daffy Dill’s adventures prove that when it comes to securing a scoop, the fist is mightier than the pencil.

A Nose for News

One
The telephone on my desk rang, so I stopped banging out the lead of the double suicide story I had just covered, and answered it. It was Dinah Mason, who is decidely bad for my heart. She was the reception girl for the Chronicle, and she had buzzed me from the outer office.
“Hello, Garbo,” I said.
“Listen, Daffy,” she said in a low voice, “a lunatic just went by here yelling your name. He looks angry. I couldn’t stop him.”
“Thanks for the warning, gel,” I said. “But I’m not on the spot for anything-as far as I can recall.”
“O.K.” She sounded funereal. “He sure looks mad.”
She hung up as did I, and no sooner had I shoved the telephone back where it belonged than the door to the city room burst open and the maniac stalked in.
He was a little guy, well dressed, with a black derby perched on the top of his skull. He was waving a home edition of the Chronicle in his right hand like a red flag. He kept saying: “Which one of you is Joe Dill? Which one of you pencil-pushers is Joe Dill?”
I kept my mouth shut, waiting for him to reach me before identifying myself, and hoping that by that time some of the hot blood would have cooled off.
The rest of the staff, in the tradition, kept their pans a perfect blank. If I wanted to make myself known, that was my business alone.
But just then Harry Lyons, the rat of our sheet, who had been sore at me since I got his job, gave me a dirty look and pointed at me. His biggest aspiration, you see, was to find me flat on my face with a knife between my shoulder blades. He said: “Here he is, mister. Meet Daffy Dill, the world’s worst newspaper man.”
I snapped: “Button your lip, Lyons!”
But he saw trouble for me. He smirked broadly, got up, and took the maniac by the arm. He pulled the guy right over to my desk and put a chair there for him.
“Here,” he said, motioning at me, “is the Cyrano de Bergerac of the newspaper racket. All nose-no news! Ha-ha!”
“Ha-ha!” I said sadly, surveying Lyons’ face for the exact spot where I was going to hang a haymaker very shortly. I picked his eye. That was the most ignominious spot.
“Are you Joe Dill?” the maniac asked loudly.
“I am,” I said, “Joe Dill. Sit down, my fran. What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” he bellowed with new fervour, slapping his copy of the home edition on my desk and hurling the chair aside. “He asks me what’s wrong. Du lieber Gott!”
I got more and more puzzled.
“Mr. Dill,” he said sibilantly, “do you know who I am, hein?”
I said: “You’ve got me there, mister.”
“I am Adolph,” he went on. “Adolph, America’s premier chef! Do you know what you have done?”
“Adolph?” I echoed. “Well, I’ll be damned! Adolph, the chef of the Grenada Hotel? Well, what in hell are you sore about? Didn’t you see that swell feature I wrote about you in the second section today?”
“Swell feature,” Adolph moaned. “Mr. Dill, you should be arrested! Verdamnt-you should never be allowed to write again. You have libelled me! You have been malicious! I will sue this damn paper to heaven!”
He turned stoically to Lyons and asked with dignity: “Where is the editor?”
“Right this way,” Lyons said, smiling sweetly at me. “I’ll take you right in. Don’t blame you a bit. Newspaper men shouldn’t libel their readers. You’re absolutely right. This way.”
When he had gone in the vague direction of the Old Man’s office I grabbed a stray copy of the Chronicle and hurriedly thumbed through it to my story, which had made a big enough hit with the Old Man to net me a by-line. I read it through carefully. Near the end I groaned. It went like this:
“Adolph was famous long before he entered the cuisine of the Grenada Hotel. For ten years before the war, he was the most famous of all the crooks of Vienna.”
Libel? It was dynamite, fuse lighted and all! I had meant to say that he was the most famous cook in all Vienna. But somehow my typewriter must have slipped in that wandering r while I was pounding the keys. I groaned. I locked my desk, got up, and found my hat and coat. I knew right then that I had joined the legion of the unemployed, but somehow that word crook still rankled me. I was damn positive that I hadn’t written crook for cook. And if I had-why hadn’t the copyreader picked it up and fixed it? Suspicion grew, and in five short minutes I realised that Harry Lyons, C. T. (Cut-Throat), had pulled a sandy on me. So I waited for him.

In a little while, Adolph came out of the Old Man’s office with a happy expression on his face-as though he had just seen my corpse. He sneered a sneer at me and left the city room. No sooner had he gone out than Lyons came to my desk.
“Why, hello, Daffy,” he said. “The Old Man wants to see you right away.”
“You don’t say,” I said. “And some one wants to see you right away too.”
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Your favourite doctor,” I said.
With that I let him have a short sweet haymaker right under his eye, which spot I had chosen previously. There was a pleasant crunch. His teeth clicked together neatly. His eyes closed with a snap you could hear on West Street. He went down and-out.
McGuire, the sports editor, looked up from the story he was writing about Lou Gehrig and yawned: “Nice punch, Daffy. Better see the Old Man anyway. He may have mercy on your soul.”
“Thanks, Mac,” I said. “I’ll see him.”
I went to the Old Man’s office and knocked. Then I opened the door and stuck my head in, weaving in case he started to throw things.
“Come in here, Daffy,” the Old Man ordered. “Sit down a second.”
“On the level?”
“Why, Daffy, did I ever-“
“O.K.,” I growled. “Ixnay on the pathos. Let’s get it over.”
He nodded and I sat down.
“In the first place,” he said, “you are fired.”
“I knew that,” I said.
“Listen, Daffy,” the Old Man said suddenly. “I hate like hell to do it, but I’ve got a boss too, the guy who publishes this sheet. I couldn’t let you stay.”
“I know, I know.”
“I had to settle with that frocked cook for one grand. He wouldn’t take a cent less for release of that libel.” The Old Man shrugged. “I have to fire you. Can’t do anything else. But I wanted to speak to you about those gambling expose articles you’ve been writing, the ones you left with me for safety.”
“They’re mine,” I said. “I did them on my own time.”
“I know it,” he said. “But I want them. They’ll blow Cantrey’s graft organisation wide open when I break them.
“Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll keep ‘em here. You go out and run into the prize scoopy of the year. It’ll have to be an exclusive. Then I’ll just be forced to hire you again, over the publisher’s head, to get your yarn. And all will be serene once more.”
“You mean,” I said, “that I’ve got to scoop the A. P., the U. P., the Metropolitan News Service and every other rag in this city to get my job back?”
“Yeah.”
I sighed. “The day of miracles is past, my fran.”
The Old Man shrugged. “You’ll have to do it. I can’t take you back otherwise. I’ve got to protect myself. I want you. You’re a good newspaper man, Daffy. And I want that gambling expose too. Make a try anyhow. You’ve got thirty bucks due on salary. How about it?”
“Slave-driver,” I said, “I will try. I’ll do my damnedest, even if I have to steal or murder myself. So long. When you see this intelligent phiz again it will hold in its mind the greatest circulation yarn in days.”
I went out. I felt enthusiastic and fine. The Old Man was a prince. He liked me-or my gambling story. When I reached the street, I went limp. Where in hell could you get a scoop in a modern newspaper day like this? I began to feel down. So I took the subway up to Times Square, which is my happy hunting ground. And then I went to the Hot Spot Club to drown my sorrows for awhile.
TWO
The Hot Spot is on West Forty-third, and it is owned by Mike Cantrey, alias the Brain. Cantrey headed just about every racket on the main stem. No murder, beering or bootlegging. Not crude stuff like that. He just took suckers. He ran machines, gambling houses, spots like this one, which were blinds for his crooked wheels in the rear. And it was Cantrey I had written my expose about.
I went in and took a seat by myself in one of the oaken stalls. A waiter came over and looked questioningly at me. I said: “An Old Fashioned, garsong, as ever.”
While I was waiting for him I lighted a cigarette. A shadow fell across my table. I looked up. A girl was standing in front of my stall. She had corn-hair, a smooth-looker, and was dressed like the Queen of Sheba.
“I know you,” she said, pointing.
She was a little bit tight and she was holding a rye highball. I thought I’d seen her before somewhere, but I played safe. I said: “You’ve got the better of me, Garbo.”
“You’re Daffy Dill,” she said.
“Right the first time,” I said.
“You’re a reporter on the Chronicle.”
“Wrong there,” I said sadly. “I was a reporter on the Chronicle. I just lost my job. That’s why my tears are staining my best shirt. Sit down and put up your hair and have a good cry with me. Who are you?”
“Tough,” she said-about the job, and then added: “I’m Clare Gordon.” I didn’t look bright. “You know-Pemberton Gordon’s daughter. You interviewed him at the house last week on the N.R.A. He’s in the cloak and suit end as administrator.”
“Hell, yes!” I said, shaking hands with the gel. “But I didn’t see you there or I would have stayed longer.” I surveyed her. “You make pretty good copy yourself. Been in any more scrapes lately? I haven’t seen a yarn about you since you forced down the police plane when it tried to get you for stunting over the city.”
She made a face. “That was a jam. They cracked up in landing. I’ve reformed. Dad played hell with me on that one.”
The waiter brought my Old Fashioned.
“Have one?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Another,” I told the waiter. He left.
“How’d you lose your job?”
I said: “I happened to have a guy in the office who hates my nerve. He had my job but he couldn’t deliver. They promoted me to his forty fish a week and he’s been sore at me ever since. He fixed me into a libellous story. Changed one word and got the paper in a jam. It looked as though I’d written it-and so I am fired.”
“Tsk, tsk,” she said, shaking her head. “Bad, bad. Daffy, am I a pal?”
“My fran,” I said, “I have known you for years.”
“You help me out,” Clare said, “and I’ll get you back your job.”
“Why not?” I said. “Consider yourself helped.”
She handed me a slip of paper. It had a list of figures on it which added up to five grand. “Know what that is?”
“I.O.U.’s, probably,” I said. “Been playing the wheel?”
“Not me,” she said. “I’m not that dumb. But my brother has and he’s in a real spot. Dad’s cracked down on him lately. Won’t give him money. Dick was playing the wheel here at Cantrey’s. He lost. He gave them an I.O.U. each time. Now they want to collect. They’re going to go to dad and I know it’ll get Dick disowned or something. I told him I’d fix it up. I saw the Brain. He said no.”
“Five grand,” I mused. “O.K., girlie. You sit here and devour your drink. I’ll be right back.”

I got up and went to the back door. Rigo, the Brain’s right-hand man, peered out at me through the barred door.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, and opened up. I went in.
The tables were all getting a good play, even for daytime. Suckers were plunking down the coppers and having them swept away without a bit of return, but they kept right at it. I asked Rigo: “Where’s the Brain?”
“In his office,” Rigo said. He was a little guy with black hair, black mustachio, and squinty eyes. “Want to see him?”
“Yeah.”
He took me in. The Brain was sitting behind his desk, smoking a cigar. Luke Terk was sitting with him. Luke was the Brain’s muscle man when customers were broken-armed about paying up. Rigo closed the door behind us.
“Hello, Daffy,” said the Brain. “How’s tricks?”
“Fair,” I said. “I want to ask a favour.”
“Anything for a pal,” said the Brain, smiling, and I shivered because I knew damn well he would have liked to have had my throat slit. “What is it?”
“There’s a guy named Richard Gordon,” I said. “A good pal of mine. He owes you five grand.”
“That’s right.”
“Tear up his I.O.U.,” I said. “He’s a personal friend, you see. He didn’t know your wheels were crooked.”
Luke Terk jumped around and stared at me. “Listen, birdie, button your lip or-“
“Why, Luke!” the Brain said. “Don’t speak like that. Daffy’s my best friend, aren’t you, Daffy?”
“How about it?” I asked. “Afraid the answer’s no,” the Brain said. “Five grand is five grand.”
“I see,” I said. “Mind if I use your phone?”
“Go ahead.”
I called the Old Man at the Chronicle. The three buzzards watched me carefully. The Old Man said irascibly: “Yeah.”
“Chief,” I said, “this is Daffy Dill. I’m at the Hot Spot seeing Mike Cantrey. He just refused to do a favour for me. Don’t you think it was about time the Chronicle ran that series of articles exposing his crooked gambling joints all over the city?” 
“Hell, no!” the Old Man said. “You haven’t finished them up yet.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll tell him he can read all about it in tomorrow’s editions then.”
“Wait a second,” the Brain said.
“I get you,” said the Old Man. “You’re baiting him. Keep talking if you want. I’ll play along from this end.”
“Nice going, chief,” I said. “But wait a second.” I put my hand over the mouthpiece and asked: “What is it?”
The Brain studied me. “Is that on the level?”
“You bet your sweet life it is!”
“It can’t hurt me. I’ve got the political boys greased.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but you haven’t got the public greased. You take their money and they’ll be sore when they read about it. They’ll put the blame for any time they’ve ever been gypped on you. Maybe there’ll be a Federal inquiry. And in two months there’s an election coming up. The people won’t elect your political boys unless they clean you out.”
Luke Terk snapped: “This is one guy we oughta cook, Brain.”
“Let me do it!” Rigo growled.
“Boys, boys!” I said. “Don’t be silly. You don’t kill a reporter who has just written an expose of you. That adds murder to the other crimes.”
The Brain said: “He’s right, you lugs. Call off your dogs, Daffy. It’s a deal. I’ll give you the I.O.U.”
“Chief,” I said into the phone, “it’s all off. You’ll have to hold those articles for another favour. So long.”
I hung up. The Brain opened his desk, took out a note, handed it to me.
“I’m on the short end,” he said. “You’ve still got those articles for publication. How much for them?”
“I’m not blackmailing,” I said.
“You mean you’ll run them sometime anyhow?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But you’ll have time to get your affairs together and start a new racket, Brain. Gambling’s dead from now on.”
Luke Terk growled: “Get outta here, you rat, before I forget myself and blast you.”
I got out.
THREE
Clare Gordon had finished her Old Fashioned when I went back to the stall. She was a little tighter. She laughed at me and asked: “How’d you make out?”
I handed her the I.O.U. “Is this your brother’s signature?”
She nodded. “That’s it.”
“Then you’re all set.” I took out a match and burned the note. “Tell him he’s in the clear. Also tell him to lay off crooked joints. Now, how about my job?”
“That’s right,” she said. “I told you I’d get it back. I’ve got a swell plan. I’m going to be kidnapped.”
“What?” I cried.
“Sure. I’m going to be kidnapped tomorrow night at eight o’clock. By airplane.”
Rigo went by the stall at that moment.
“Shh,” I said. “Not so loud. Now, what in hell is this?”
“I just figured it out,” she said, “sitting here. You write my folks a threatening letter, saying I’ve been kidnapped and that the ransom-“
I sighed. “Did you ever hear of the Lindbergh Law?”
“Sure, but what’s the difference? All right then. I’ll write my own letter. I’ll say that I’ve been kidnapped and the ransom is two hundred thousand. I’ll name you as go-between. Then I’ll take off from home in my plane tomorrow at 8:00 P.M. and fly up to Binneybunk, Maine, where dad has a cabin. It’ll be deserted there now. After a week or two, while you bask in the publicity of go-between and your paper cries for your services, I’ll come back and tell a wild story.”
“You’re hopped,” I said. “You’re staggering. Forget it. I wouldn’t go in on a plan like that for money.”
“But I want to help you!”
“Help me? You want me to become a lifer in a Federal jug!”
Clare wrinkled her nose. “All right. But you can’t stop me from doing it. And I’ll write the ransom note and still name you as go-between.”
“I’ll blow up the story.”
“And they’ll pinch you for conspiracy or something. I’m telling you, Daffy. Tomorrow at 8:00 P.M. I hop off for Maine and kidnap myself. Them’s the kind words that gets back your job.”
Well, she meant what she said. I was sitting in my apartment the next night around eight thirty, bemoaning the lack of scoops in this dazzling world. I had had a hard day trying to find a story which would yank back my job, but no luck. My nose simply wasn’t in the news. I was washed up. Then my telephone rang.
I answered it with: “Your nickel!”
It was my heart, Dinah Mason. She thrust aside the usual sentimental amenities and said: “Daffy, hell’s broken loose!”
“Somebody bomb the office?” I asked cheerfully.
“It’s Clare Gordon,” Dinah said. “She’s been kidnapped. Half an hour ago. She was taking off from her father’s estate out near Huntington, Long Island. Three men jumped her. At least that’s what the chauffeur says. The snatchers piled into the plane and they all took off for points unknown.”
I chuckled. “Damn the gel! Any other fine points?”
“There was a ransom note left behind. It names you as go-between! The bulls have been here for you. They’re on their way up there now! The Old Man is frantic, trying to find you. The last place we looked was home. You’re seldom there.”
“Listen, Dinah,” I said, “don’t get excited. The Gordon skirt framed this whole thing. I’ll tell the Old Man when I see him. It was put-up.”
“Are you sure, Daffy? It doesn’t look like a frame.”
“It’s a frame, my chickadee,” I said. “Forget it. Who’s covering for the paper?”
“Harry Lyons.”
“Oh me, oh my,” I gloated. “What glorious fun! Abyssinia, my hour-glass. Look me up in Atlanta.”

I hung up, threw on my hat and coat and took a powder before the police reached my place. I wasn’t any too soon either. They roared up the street to the door, sirens going, just as I went down the block. I caught a cab, said: “Headquarters, Mac,” and settled back on the cushions to enjoy the ride, which cost me seventy-five cents when I finally paid off in front of the Centre Street building at the other end.
I went up to see Captain George Shane, who, I figured, would be in charge of the case, even if it had taken place on Long Island. They centralise things like kidnappings, because one man has to stand in with the Federal authorities when they come searching. Inspector Calloran and Sergeant Bill Hanley of the Homicide Squad were both on the out in this snatch.
I was right. Captain Shane was my man. Every newshound in the city was outside his door, pounding on it, trying to get in and get hold of some facts. A cop-I recognised him as Curly Newton-was pushing them aside. In the midst of the holocaust I saw Harry Lyons. He had a bad eye where I had brushed him off. I said: “Gentlemen of the Press!”
There was sudden silence. They stopped pushing and turned around. Lyons yelled: “Daffy Dill!” and that started it. I forgot for a moment that I had been named go-between in Clare Gordon’s screwy ransom note. I was a public figure in the case. They mobbed me for a statement while Curly Newton tore into Captain Shane’s office. In a second or two, before I could say a word, Newton came out again and dragged me through the mob into Shane’s office. He closed the door and I liked the quiet for a change.
Captain Shane was pacing the floor in front of Pemberton Gordon, Clare’s father. He recognised me easily since I had interviewed him for the paper only the week before, as Clare had said.
There were two other men in the room too. They were Federal operatives. I could see it as plain as day.
“Daffy,” said Captain Shane. “You heard what’s happened?”
I nodded.
“You heard you’ve been named go-between?”
I nodded again, looking at Pemberton Gordon’s face. He was scared to death. His hands were trembling. I could see a vein in his temple throbbing like hell. I felt sorry for him.
“Listen, Captain,” I said, “I just heard about it and I came right down to blow it up. It’s a fake.”
“A what?”
“A fake, a pushover, sandy. It’s a frame. The kid did it on purpose to help me get my job back.”
Captain Shane stared at me. “Daffy, are you on the level?”
“You know me, Captain,” I said. “I don’t lie to you.”
“Then start talking,” he snapped. “Let’s hear this one.”
I talked and told him all that had happened, how I’d done the gel a favour (I didn’t say what it was because her old man was there) and how she wanted to do something for me. I told how she said she’d kidnap herself, name me as the go-between so’s I’d get the job back. Shane listened without saying anything, just nodding now and then, but I saw that Pemberton Gordon was regarding me with the kind of a look he’d give Frankenstein’s monster. And the Federal dicks were giving me the kind of eye which meant a rubber hose. I prayed.
When I had finished, Captain Shane shook his head.
“Daffy,” he said, “it sounds fishy. I’ve known you a long time and all that, but it sounds fishy. I don’t like to say it-but it does. Now come clean.”
“Chief,” I said shortly, “that’s clean. I wouldn’t fool you.”
“He’s one of the gang!” Gordon exclaimed. “I know he’s one of the gang. That’s why he was named as go-between. He knows where Clare is! I want him arrested!”
One of the Feds said: “Don’t worry about that none.”
“Wait a second,” I said. “Take it easy, boys. I’m telling the God’s honest truth.” I was sweating like a soda glass. “The girl is up at her father’s cabin at Binneybunk, Maine. Why don’t you check on that and see if I’m right.”
Shane nodded. “That’s sound.”
“We’ll do that little thing,” one of the Feds snapped.
“Meanwhile,” said the other, “you’re being detained as a material witness or suspicious character or anything you’d like. Put him in the can, Captain.”
“That’s what I’ll have to do, Daffy,” said Shane. “Sorry.”
“O.K., chief,” I said. “Just so we clear the thing up. I told that scatterbrained frill I wasn’t in on it. She said that wouldn’t stop her.”
“We’ll wire the Binneybunk sheriff,” said Captain Shane. “Sit tight in the jug. You’ll know in an hour.”
FOUR
They put me in a cell. The minutes took a hell of a long time to pass. I smoked. I got to smoking so much I used a whole half-pack of cigarettes and my tongue felt like the Russian army had walked across it with bayonets fixed. I kept sweating and my hands were trembling. I don’t know why, but I felt damned uneasy.
At ten o’clock Captain Shane came to see me.
“Did they find her?” I asked.
“Daffy,” he said slowly, “I hate like hell to do this. But Pemberton Gordon just swore out a warrant for your arrest. You’re charged with aiding in the kidnapping of one Clare Gordon, and anything you say from now on can be used against you. They’re setting your bail at twenty-five grand.”
“Twenty-five grand!” I yelled. “Arrest? Chief, for God’s sake, listen. The girl-“
“She wasn’t there,” Captain Shane said. “The cabin hadn’t been opened since Gordon was up at Binneybunk last summer.”
I wilted. “Oh,” I said. “Oh, thanks.” I was croaking, not talking. “Thanks, chief. I-I guess I’m in a jam. Do me a favour, will you?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Get me some cigs, please?”
“Sure. Anything else?”
“Telephone-telephone the Old Man. Tell him I want to see him.”
Captain Shane shook his head. “No need of that, Daffy. The Old Man’s here. He wants to see you.”
“Can he?”
Captain Shane shrugged. “O.K., I guess. But only for five minutes.”
“Thanks,” I nodded. I felt better somehow. The sweating stopped. The suspense was killed. I knew where I stood. He went away. In a few seconds the Old Man puffed up to my cell and stared at me.
“Daffy, you old jailbird,” he said, “when I told you to go scoopy, I didn’t say get a life sentence doing it. Is it a story?”
“It’s a story,” I said. “But I’m the fall guy.”
He looked me straight in the eye.
“Tell me one thing,” he said. “One thing, Daffy. You’re clean on this thing?”
I said: “I’m clean, chief.”
“Good.” He chuckled. “Then spill it.”
I spilled it, the whole damn thing, and he listened, taking in every news angle it had. When I finished he remarked: “It’s a lulu, all right. It’ll make us dust off the type we used for the Armistice. But can you write it? If I get a machine up here, can you write that yarn? Can you-“ He stopped and glanced warily at me. “Wait a second. If you-hell’s bells! The girl wasn’t at the Maine cabin. That means she’s really been snatched!”
I nodded.
“Daffy,” he said, watching my face, “do you know who did it?”
“I’ve got a good idea,” I said.
The Old Man got pale. He paced back and forth a few minutes. Then he called: “Be right back,” and left. I felt for a cigarette, but I didn’t have any. Captain Shane came along and slipped me a pack. I paid him for them; they hadn’t taken my belongings yet. “Thanks,” I said. The Old Man showed up just at that instant.
“You’re free, Daffy,” he said. “I called up Kennril. He said that with the yarn behind it the Chronicle was going to post bond for your bail. That’s legal. All O.K., Captain?”
“Hell, yes,” Shane said. “The Chronicle is good for twenty-five grand. Have you signed the papers?”
“No, but I will now. Let the boy out.”
“Not till the bond is posted.”

They went off and fixed that business up while I jiggled on pins and needles. Every minute was precious. After an awfully long wait the turnkey came and let me out. The Old Man and Shane were waiting for me in Shane’s office. Shane gave me a card, in case other bulls tried to put the bite on me.
“Judas,” I said to the Old Man, “thanks! Thanks for everything! I’ll never-“
“Wait a second,” he said. “You’ve got to earn that bond. Go out and after them, Daffy. And try to break it right for the noon edition.” “Say,” asked Shane suspiciously, “does he know the snatchers?” 
“I don’t know a thing,” I said. “See my lawyer. O.K. I’m on my way.” I shook hands with the Old Man. “I mean it, chief. Thanks.” 
“Get to hell out of here,” the Old Man snapped. I had a gun permit for a .32 Colt, but I never carried the rod. I figured I needed it tonight, so I took a cab uptown to my place. There was a cop out front. I didn’t want trouble. I went in the back way and
upstairs. I found the rod all right, primed and ready to go. I slipped it in my coat pocket and went out the back way. Then I headed for the main stem, crossed it, and went into the Hot Spot. I called a waiter. “Is the Brain in?”
“No.” The reply was surly.
“Rigo? Luke Terk?”
“Naw, they’re all out.”
“O.K.,” I said. I went out and turned into the back alley. I knew if any one of the three came they’d go into the Brain’s office the back way. I took up a spot in the shadows and waited with my right hand wrapped fondly around my gun.
I waited about fifteen minutes. It was ten after eleven by the Paramount clock. I heard footsteps come along the street. I ducked back farther into the shadows. A man turned into the alley. He was all alone. I recognised him. Rigo, with his short-stepped gait. I let the Colt go. I reached in my pocket and took out my penknife and snapped open the blade.
Rigo was careful. He took a good look around himself, but it was damn dark where I stood. He missed me. He aimed for the side door of the Hot Spot, and for one second he turned his back to me.
I jumped out of the shadows, threw my left arm around his neck and jabbed the knife into his back, just enough for him to feel the cold steel.
“Hello, Rigo,” I said. “Nice seeing you again.”
He was breathing hard. He gasped: “Who is it?”
“Daffy Dill,” I said. “An old friend.” I sneaked my left hand into his shoulder holster and put his gun in my pocket. “Don’t move, you rat,” I snapped, “or I’ll give you the length of this blade.” He didn’t move. He asked:
“What’re you after, Dill?”
“Clare Gordon,” I answered, “and the boys who snatched her.”
He shuddered. I could feel it. He said: “Wrong alley. I don’t know nothing about it.”
“Listen, you crumby little bun,” I snapped, “come clean. I’m not kidding now. The Brain engineered this. You overheard the gel say she was going to stage a fake. You were taking it out on her because I got that I.O.U. of her brother’s back. That and the fact that I wrote those gambling expose articles which will blow your business to hell. You needed a new racket, and the Brain chose this one.”
“You’re crazy!” he said.
“Rigo,” I said coldly, “where is she?”
“I tell you I don’t know.”
I took the knife and cut him deep across the back of the neck. The blood started running down over his shirt.
“Rigo,” I said, “you’re going to tell me or I’ll cut your head off. Come clean. Where is she?”
“I tell you I don’t-know!” His voice was shrill and he was breathing hard from the pain. That pup was scared to death.
“Want another cut?” I asked.
“Leave me alone! For God’s sake, leave me alone. I don’t know anything about it. I told you-“
I cut him again on the back of the neck, deeper this time. He winced and began to half sob from the pain. “For God’s sake, Dill, are you crazy? Leave me alone!”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t-“
I put the edge of the blade across the front of his throat. I tightened it there.
“Rigo,” I said, “I’m going to tell you a little secret. I’m out on bail. I’m charged with Clare Gordon’s snatch. If I don’t find out from you where she is I’m due for either a death sentence or a lifer term.”
“I don’t know where she is!”
“I haven’t got much to lose, Rigo,” I said coldly. I pressed the knife harder. “Your jugular vein is right there. If you don’t spill her location in ten seconds I’m going to slice your throat wide open and let you bleed to death.”
“That’s murder, Dill!”
“Sure,” I said. “But what have I got to lose. Your ten seconds are up. Here goes. So long, Rigo.”
I cut him slightly. He half screamed and tried to break away from me. I listened to his shrill words as he got hysterical with terror. “She’s at the Brain’s place! She’s at the Brain’s place!”
“Take it easy,” I said, easing up on the blade. “What do you mean?”
“The Brain’s place!” he babbled. “Uptown. Ritz Towers! The Brain’s penthouse!”
It’s funny how fear will make a guy squeal on his own mother. I kept the knife on him but just enough for him to feel it. “How’d she get there?” I asked. “You snatched her when she was taking off in her plane from Huntington, Long Island!”
“The Brain and Luke Terk engineered the snatch over there! I waited up at Yonkers with a speedboat!”
“Who piloted?”
“Cantrey! The Brain!” He was gasping.
“What then?”
“Cantrey set the crate down in the Hudson. He had flares.”
“Was it an amphibian?”
“Yeah. Land and water. We broke the pontoons and let the crate sink. Then we came down the river in the speedboat. I had left the Brain’s Lincoln by the Fifty-seventh Street pier. We tied up the boat and got in the car. We took the Gordon doll up to the Brain’s place. I came back here to make things look right.”
“Thanks,” I said, “for the interesting lecture.”
FIVE
I took out his rod and cracked him on the skull with it. He went out like a light and sagged to the alley floor. I figured him cold for at least an hour. I ran down the street to a cigar store, stuck a nickel in a telephone and called Dinah Mason.
“Hello?” she said.
“It’s Daffy,” I said.
“Darling,” she said, “what’s happened to you? The Old Man got word that you were being held in connection-“
“Listen, my little rattlesnake,” I said. “I just put the bite on Rigo. You know Rigo-the Brain’s right or left hand. I forget which. Anyway, he opened up and squealed beautifully. Now get this, because I’m on my way. Clare Gordon is being held captive at Mike Cantrey’s penthouse apartment at the Ritz Towers. In case they should bury me before you see me again, tell some one else that pertinent information and write the story along with my obit.”
“Check,” she said. “Be careful, you lunatic. Don’t get killed just when I’ve got you that way about me.”
“I’m not going to try,” I said, “but you never can tell.”
I hung up and hooked a cab for uptown. We made the Ritz Towers in nothing flat. I paid off the driver-four bits it was-and I went in. I found out how the Brain got Clare up there without suspicion. He had a private elevator to his place. I said I wanted to see him. They made a call upstairs.
“The answer,” said the desk clerk, “is no. Mr. Cantrey is seeing no one tonight.”
“Tell him,” I said, “it’s about some gambling articles a fellow once wrote.”
“He’ll see you,” the desk clerk said after relaying the kind words. “Take that elevator.”
I took it. It was a non-stop at that time of night and we went up so fast I felt as though I’d left my stomach on the first floor. I got out. I didn’t have any plan. I was just planning on inspiration. There were only two of them. I knew that. The Brain didn’t go in for mobs.
I rang the bell. Luke Terk opened the door.
“Hello, rat,” he said.
I went in. He had a gun in his right hand. With the other, as I passed him, he frisked me. He found my Colt and made me take it out. “Drop it on the floor.” I dropped it. I felt sort of empty. I had counted on that gun for a jam. “O.K.,” Luke Terk said then. “Go on in. One funny move and I give it to you.”
His voice was cold and low. He meant it.

The Brain was sitting in the living room. It was a swanky spot, all furnished modernistic, the way the furniture looks when you wake up with the jitters and a bad hangover. He smiled at me in a self-satisfied way. I had a feeling I was in for it.
“Come to the point,” he said. “Never mind the gambling stories stall.”
“All right,” I said. “You snatched Clare Gordon. The gel’s here. I want her.”
“You want the moon,” said the Brain softly.
“Maybe so,” I said. “But I want her.”
“She ain’t here.”
I laughed nervously. “You’re stalling now, Cantrey. I hopped Rigo in an alley. He squealed.”
“I know,” the Brain said. “You cut him with your knife. Sorta nasty trick, wasn’t it, Daffy?”
I felt icy. “So he came to and called you?”
“Yeah. He’s got a tough skull. Sorta nasty, wasn’t it?”
“Not for a rat like Rigo,” I said. “He had it coming. I don’t like snatchers, Brain.”
“My, my!” Luke Terk exclaimed. “He don’t like snatchers.” His voice went taut. “Well, I don’t like guys with knives, Dill!”
“He had it coming.”
“And so have you,” said the Brain. “Ever had your teeth burned with matches? Ever had needles stuck through your skin? We do that with welchers, Daffy. I think we’ll stretch a point. Maybe you ain’t a welcher. But you was pretty rough on Rigo. And Rigo is a pal of mine, see?”
“You’re running a sandy,” I said. “You can’t scare me now. Go ahead, torture me. Then bump me off. The Feds are still after Clare Gordon. They don’t miss out on their cases, Brain.”
“She ain’t here.”
“Sure,” I said, “she’s flew away with a little birdie. Don’t kid me. She’s in the Ritz Towers somewhere. Rigo squealed once. He’ll squeal again.”
“The Feds don’t carve guys’ throats,” snapped Luke Terk.
“Rigo’s O.K.,” said the Brain. “But you’re not, Daffy. You’re washed out. You’ve poked that big nose of yours into trouble this time.”
“Into news,” I said. “A nose for news.”
“You stuck it into a coffin,” said Luke Terk. “Only this time the lid’s on it and you can’t pull out.”
I waited for a second and didn’t say anything. They had the drop on me coming and going and there wasn’t a thing I could do except bluff and stall a little.
“I want Clare Gordon,” I said.
“Nuts,” Luke Terk growled. “O.K., chief?”
The Brain nodded. “O.K., Luke. Give it to him. And make it hurt.”
Luke Terk jabbed his gun in my ribs. “Get over to that sofa,” he said. “And lie down.”
I started for the sofa. Simultaneously, there was a hell of a racket in the streets below. We were up some sixteen floors, but we could hear the police sirens as plain as day. They were screaming and I could hear the cars grinding up to the curb.
The gun in my ribs loosened. Luke Terk tensed and turned.
“Chief,” he snapped. “Bulls! This lug must’ve tipped them off!”
“Take it easy,” the Brain said. “Maybe they’re not for us.”
“They’re for you,” I said. “I tipped them.”
Luke Terk cried: “Chief-what’ll we do with him?”
“Take him along!” the Brain said. “You take him down where the doll is. I’ll stay here and parley with the cops. You-“
Now was the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party. I spun around, swinging with my right. It was a good swing, but I hit without a target, since Luke Terk and his rod were behind me. I heard the Brain yell. I missed Terk’s chin and hit him on the left shoulder.
SIX
The punch hurt my fist. It hit solidly. Luke Terk went down, but I had fired the arm so hard I fell right on top of him. I hit him again as we sprawled. This time I caught him on the beak. It spouted blood. He tried to bring his gun hand up.
The Brain yelled again. Then there was a shot. The bullet went over my back with an angry whine. If you don’t think slugs make noise, you want to get that close to one of them. I shot out my foot and smashed it down on Luke Terk’s hand. Terk yelled with pain and his fingers shot open. The gun dropped to the rug.
Another shot from the Brain. The rug in front of Terk’s head jumped as the slug dug into the floor.
“For God’s sake, chief!” Terk screamed. “Go easy!”
I dove for the gun Terk had dropped, keeping low and not giving a damn whether the Brain hit me or not. I got into the spirit of the thing. I reached the gun, picked it up. I wheeled on my belly, firing twice. The slugs never went near the Brain, but they scared him. He let go another wild shot at me that missed by feet and then tore out of the room into the hall. I could hear the front door slam.
Luke Terk was struggling to his feet. On my knees, I covered him with the gun. He was reaching into his coat pocket.
“Cut it!” I snapped.
He must have figured that I was bluffing. He kept right on into his pocket. I saw his hand come out. He had the .32 pistol in it, the rod he had taken from me in the entrance hall when he frisked me.
“Cut it,” I snapped again.
He raised it for a shot. I yanked the trigger of his own gun. It jumped in my hand. It made an awful racket. He fell over backwards as though I had hit him with a sledge-hammer. The .32 flew up into the air and smacked a picture on the wall, knocking the glass pane to bits.
I got to my feet and looked at him. There was a hole in his right lung. His chest was bleeding. He was conscious, his eyes were open and his lips kept moving as though he were trying to say something. Nothing came out. He’d live. Sawbones can fix up wounds like that one.
I stepped over him and started for the entrance hall. At the same time the front door burst open. I turned around and ran for the bedroom, the gun still in my hand. The window there was open. I shut the window after me and started down the fire escape. I knew if the police caught me there with Luke Terk wounded and no Clare Gordon to show for it I would be in a worse jam than ever. I had to get the Brain and the gel.
I went down two floors on the fire escape when I heard the window of the Brain’s bedroom open. I hugged the wall of the building and stopped moving. Then I heard him say: “No one down there,” and he closed the window again. It was Captain Shane.
I took a breather and wondered what in hell to do. I was marooned on the fire escape. The only chance I had of getting off it and trailing the Brain was by going through a window, into an apartment, and then out into the hall and down, dodging cops all the way. It was a small chance, but the only one. And it wouldn’t do to have Luke’s gun on me.
Glancing down into the street, I saw it was pretty deserted. This was the side of the hotel, not the front where the cops were. I heaved the gun out and away. I could hear it hit, just dully.
I tried the window in front of me. It was locked. Swearing softly, I went down another flight of the fire escape and tried the next one. It was unlocked. I opened it softly. The shade was down. It was dark green. I pushed it aside and stepped into the room. The lights were out. It was dark as hell. I stood there for a few seconds, trying to adjust my eyes. There wasn’t a sound in the room. But in the one adjoining I could hear some one walking around. I started across the room. A floor board creaked. I stopped, stiffened.
Suddenly I gasped. The bed in the room was squealing loudly as some one moved on the springs.
“Take it easy,” I whispered. “I’m a friend. I won’t hurt you.” I felt like a fool, but what else was there to say under circumstances like that?
The bed squeaked more and more. Some one was bouncing up and down on it. I had a hunch. I walked over to it and struck a match.
Just like I thought. There lay Clare Gordon...
She was bound with thick adhesive tape both on her ankles and her arms. Her hands were spread out flat against each other and taped. There was a wad of tape across her mouth. Two ropes stretched across her body and under the bed prevented her from rolling off.
She looked at me pleadingly. The match went out. I lighted another and went to work on the tape over her mouth, motioning her to keep quiet when she could speak. I pulled off the tape. They had stuck a lemon in her mouth. I took it out. The first thing she said was: “Judas Priest! I’m nearly dead!”
“Shh,” I said.
I took off the rest of the tape and she sat up. She had to rub her legs to bring back the circulation. I said: “Well, you sure did it.”
“Thank you, my fran,” she said, grinning. She had what it takes. You couldn’t keep her down. “They jumped me. They must have overheard me at the Hot Spot yesterday. Just when I was taking off they jumped me and flew off with me in the plane. Landed the plane in some river. Then a speedboat. Finally a car. Then here.”
“Were you upstairs first?” I asked.
“Uh-huh. But somebody named Rigo telephoned and that oyster, Luke Terk, took me down here for safety. Thanks for saving me. It was good fun while it lasted, but I was getting stiff. How’s your job? Get it back yet?”
“Listen, hare-brain,” I said, “you’re not saved yet. In the next room there’s a mug with a gun and he’s just aching to kill me.”
“What are you going to do then?” she asked.
I shrugged ruefully. “I don’t know. I haven’t a rod. Damn it!” I sat down on the bed a second. “Guess we’d better go up by the fire escape. The cops are up there.”
“That’s safe and sound,” she said. “Only you sound disappointed.”
“I am. I’d like to get the Brain myself. It’d make a better news story for the Chronicle.”
“Then get him. Pick up a chair or something. Get behind the door. I’ll yell help or something. He’ll come in.”
“Wahoo,” I said, “that’s an idea.” Picking up a brass candlestick from the mantel, I went over behind the door. “Let go in your best soprano,” I said, “but make it muffled, like your gag has worked off.”
“Help! Help! Save me!” she half moaned.
Next door there was a strident curse. Heavy footsteps pounded across the floor. The door flew open.
“Shut your mouth, damn you,” the Brain greeted, “or I’ll cook you right now!”
Clare had nerve. She repeated, “Help! Help!”
He came in. There was a gun in his hand. The light from the other room fell square on his head. It was all I needed. I brought the candlestick down with a swish. He half turned, firing his gun just once. Then he flopped over cold and pieces of plaster from the ceiling caromed onto my hat. I snapped on the lights.
“My hero,” Clare grinned.
“My God!” I sighed, sitting down. “What a night...” I paused, a brilliant thought pervading my struggling mind. “Listen, heiress,” I said, “your old man had me arrested. Now I saved your brother five grand, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“Do you think, then, your old man would have any objections to a five grand pay-off out of court?”
“Out of court?”
“Sure, instead of defending himself against my suit for false arrest.”
“Daffy Dill!” she exclaimed, laughing, “it’s a lulu. It’ll do my heart good to see him sign your check!”
The door was being knocked down. I let them knock it. I was too tired, and cops have nervous trigger fingers anyway. In a few seconds Captain Shane, the two Feds, and half the police force came in.
“There’s your package,” I said. “And here’s the wrapper-upper.”
Captain Shane grinned. “That cleans you, Daffy. Thanks. Your better-half called me up after your tip-off.”
“Did you hear the shot in here?”
“Yeah. That’s what brought us in.”
I sighed. “Where’s a telephone?”
“Wait a second,” said Shane. “What in hell happened? Spill it.”
“Uh-uh,” I said, shaking my head. “See the patient.”
“How about it, Miss Gordon?” Shane asked.
“You can read the exclusive story,” Clare said, “in tomorrow’s edition of the Chronicle.”
“Listen-“ Captain Shane roared.
“Hello, Dinah?” I said in the telephone.
“Howdy, my cherub,” Dinah said. “All serene and sound?”
“Not serene,” I replied, listening to Shane, “but quite sound.”
“Good,” said Dinah. “So what?”
“Get out the cold cuts,” I said, “and the beer and potato salad. Daffy’s on his way up to see you.”

A Nose for News by Richard Sale first appeared in Detective Fiction Weekly, December 1934. Copyright 1934 by Munsey Publications, Inc., and 1960 by Popular Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Richard Sale c/o H. N. Swanson,.