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Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald tried at one and the same time to roar and to swallow. He accomplished neither. He put his finger in the bowl of his pipe. He jerked it out, scorched.

“Look!” he said almost hoarsely, “I was tellin’ you when the phone rang! We got a police force here in town! This’s what we’ve been tryin’ to get! You come along with me to Headquarters an’ swear to a complaint–“

Brink said interestedly: “Why?”

“That guy Big Jake Connors!” raged the detective. “That’s why! Tryin’ to threaten you into givin’ him a share in your business! Tryin’ to burn it down or blow it up when you won’t! He was just a small-town crook, once. He went to the big town an’ came back with ideas. He’s usin’ ’em!”

Brink looked at him expectantly.

“He started a beer business,” said the detective bitterly. “Simultaneous other beer dealers started havin’ trouble. Empty kegs smashed. Trucks broke down. Drivers in fights. They hadda go outta business!”

“What did the cops do?” asked Brink.

“They listened to their wives!” snarled Fitzgerald. “They begun to find little grabbag packages in the mail an’ with the milk. Fancy perfume. Tricky stockin’s. Fancy underwear they shoulda been ashamed for anybody to know they had it on underneath. The cops weren’t bribed, but their wives liked openin’ the door of a mornin’ an’ findin’ charmin’ little surprises.”

“Ah,” said Brink.

“Then there were juke boxes,” went on the detective. “He went in that business–an’ trouble started. People’d drive up to a beer joint, go in, get in a scuffle an’–bingo! The juke box smashed. Always the juke box. Always a out-of-town customer. Half the juke boxes in town weren’t workin’, on an average. But the ones that were workin’ were always Big Jake’s. Presently he had the juke-box business to himself.”

Brink nodded, somehow appreciatively.

“Then it was cabs,” said Fitzgerald. “A lot of cops felt bad about that. But their wives wouldn’t be happy if anything happened to dear Mr. Big Jake who denied that he gave anybody anything, so it was all right to use that lovely perfume…. Cabs got holes in their radiators. They got sand in their oil systems. They had blowouts an’ leaks in brake-fluid lines. Cops’ wives were afraid Big Jake would get caught. But he didn’t. He started insurin’ cabs against that kinda accident. Now every cab-driver pays protection-money for what they call insurance–or else. An’ cops’ wives get up early, bright-eyed, to see what Santa Claus left with the milk.”

“You seem,” said Brink with a grin, “to hint that this Big Jake is … well … dishonest.”

“Dishonest!” Fitzgerald’s face was purplish, from many memories of wrongs. “There was a guy named Burdock who owned this business before you. Y’know what happened to him?”

“Yes,” said Drink. “He’s my brother-in-law. Connors or somebody insisted on having a share of the business and threatened dreadful things if he didn’t. He didn’t. So acid got spilled on clothes. Machinery got smashed. Once a whole delivery-truck load of clothes disappeared and my brother-in-law had to pay for any number of suits and dresses. It got him down. He’s recovering from the nervous strain now, and my sister … eh, asked me to help out. So I offered to take over. He warned me I’d have the same trouble.”

“And you’ve got it!” fumed the detective. “But anyhow you’ll make a complaint. We’ll get out some warrants, and we’ll have somethin’ to go on–“

“But nothing’s happened to complain about,” said Brink, quite reasonably. “One broken window’s not worth a fuss.”

“But somethin’s goin’ to happen!” insisted the detective. “That guy Big Jake is poison! He’s takin’ over the whole town, bit by bit! You’ve been lucky so far, but your luck could run out–“

Brink shook his head.