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Secret Service Captain Farrell was a mild little man until the counterfeiters killed his friend—after that he was a tornado!

Blood In The Rain

By Edward S. Sullivan

CAPTAIN FARRELL drew back in the shelter of the doorway as the rain beat a tattoo on his hat-brim. It was one of the wickedest nights he'd ever seen.

No one who chanced to notice the moon-faced, mild-appearing little man huddling in the rain-swept doorway would have guessed that he was the chief of the San Francisco Bureau, United States Secret Service. Most of those outside the law who knew what lay behind that mild and scholarly exterior were safely stowed away in McNeil Island or Alcatraz. A few who had underestimated Captain Farrell's abilities were even more safely stowed away under six feet of earth.

Despite the pressing fact that he was soaked to the skin, the little Secret Service chief felt a warm inner glow and smiled grimly as he peered down the street through his horn-rimmed glasses.

"All set," he muttered to himself, "if we're not flooded out before he shows up!"

This rainy night, if all went well, was to see the culmination of months of effort—the bagging of the gang that had been flooding San Francisco and Los Angeles with counterfeit Federal Reserve notes in such staggering numbers that the Secretary of the Treasury had personally called Captain Farrell on the telephone and ordered him to drop all other matters in favor of tracking down the money plant.

So expertly had the fake money been printed, and so adroitly had it been passed, that not a single arrest had been made— until today.

A bartender, warned by the Federal men, had challenged a twenty-dollar bill presented by a seedy little stranger. He summoned the policeman on the beat. A frisk of the stranger uncovered three other twenties in his pockets—each of them a perfect specimen, but all with the same serial number. The master counterfeiters, with elaborate plates but apparently a small printing press, had not troubled to print different numbers on their bills.

That seedy stranger, who gave the name of George Williams, now sat in a Ford coupe parked across the street from the doorway where Captain Farrell stood in the rain.

UNDER pressure, he had cracked and sung to high heaven—with what few lyrics he had to sing. Every Monday night, he said, he waited on the corner of Washington and Stockton Streets until a man appeared—a man whose name he did not know—and handed him a sheaf of the fake bills, for which Williams paid in good cash, at seventy-five per cent of the face value of the queer. The man had given Williams detailed instructions for the safe passing of the money, which indicated to Captain Farrell that this "middle-man" was high in the councils of the counterfeiters.

"So help me," Williams whined, "he told me he'd kill me if I ever tried to follow him."

He was able to add only that the man had once let slip a hint that the fake money was manufactured in San Francisco.

On the promise of leniency, Williams agreed to lead the Federal operatives to the contact man.

The rain fell in sheets, borne before gusts of wind. The face of Williams, behind the wheel of the Ford, was a white blur.

Half a block behind him, a black sedan was parked, with Secret Service Agent Harry Murton crouched in the shadows of the back seat. Agent Matt Brophy sat in a fast coupe, midway down the next block. The Federal trap was set, with the two operatives ready to follow the contact man, at a signal from the captain.

Farrell took off his glasses and wiped them carefully with his handkerchief. His blue eyes blinked owlishly, like those of a baby. Onl...

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