Dicks Die Hard can be found in






Martin Clyde, headquarters detective, would walk barefoot through hell to prove that

Dicks Die Hard

By Theodore Tinsley

A GANG of workmen were repairing the street paving and the clatter of their pneumatic drills against the asphalt was a hammering snarl that matched the grim rage in the heart of Detective Martin Clyde. Just ahead was the doorway of the dingy tenement where Mopsy Dolan had his hangout. Martin had made up his mind to stride in there and shake Mopsy's teeth loose. It was the only way to make him lay off young Sam.

Mopsy was a vicious crook who lived well at the expense of timorous merchants who paid monthly tribute. If they didn't pay, an "Italian grapefruit" might be tossed through their plate- glass—or worse. The worried detective knew that his brother was playing around with Mopsy. He had begged Sam earnestly to cut loose, but had been told angrily by the kid to mind his own business.

He had said no more to Sam. But he sent a grim warning to the gangster: "Keep your dirty paws off my brother, or I'll bust your head open."

Mopsy's answer was an invitation, to go to hell. Marty Clyde hesitated in front of the tenement. The noise of the pneumatic drills made his worried head ache. The threats he had made against Mopsy were common knowledge in police headquarters. He'd been urged to get the goods on Mopsy's racket so they could haul him in.

A figure came hurrying suddenly from the dim doorway, bumped into the detective, recoiled with a gasp. Martin's face paled as he recognized his younger brother. Breathing heavily, his clothes rumpled, Sam looked the picture of frightened dismay.

"Oh—er—hello."

"Hello, Sam. Been talking with Mopsy Dolan again, huh?"

"Who, me? You're crazy. I—I haven't seen him in days."

"What happened to the button on your coat?" Sam's shifty eyes flicked toward the missing button. "The—the tailor musta ripped it off. ...

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