The Finest Writers
Send Their Stories
First to the Illus
trated F e a t u r e
Section
• . -
" T«,»ti;.»T■gggSiuRSa C>“"“*_ ILLUSTRATED FEATURE SECTION—September 3, 1932 BLUE R,BBON T™"«"™roreOTo"E" WEEK '*
; Tj=g J?jn|
$ I
i_i
By WILLIAM M. JOHNSON
Pete Wilson, detective, has been
given an assignment to clean oat
the Carlson gang, Fairview'a best
organized racketeers. First, however,
Pete had to meet Sally Wright, soft,
and high brown.
Johnson throws together a smart
detective, a brown girl, and a gang
of racketeers, stirs them all up and
the result is the exciting—
“ROADHOUSE RACKET"
A low racy roadster slid to an
abrupt stop in front of the Hotel
Imperial in Fairview and a hand
some clean cut young man got out.
A bell boy took his bags and a gar
age attendant drove off in his car.
Inside the hotel he wrote, “Pete
Wilson, Washington, D.C.,” on the
register in a large masculine
scrawl.
“Call me about eight this eve
ning,” he instructed the desk man.
“Yes sir, Mr. Wilson,” that in
dividual replied in his best hotel
manner. “Is that all?”
“Well,” Fete favored him with a
wide disarming grin, “if you can
think of anything else that will
help, do that, too.”
“Another wise guy,” the desk
man muttered to himself, watch
ing Pete follow the bell boy to the
elevator.
After arranging his things to suit
him. Pete poured himself a stiff
drink from a choice bottle of
Scotch. “The Chief sure gave me
a job this time,” he mused half
aloud, recalling his mission there
in Pairview.
“Wilson,” the Chief had said,
“there's a gang of shady charac
ters working in Fairview. I have
reasons to believe that they are run
by Paul Carlson, who runs the
Black and Tan roadhouse there.
Find out their racket. Go about
it in your own way, but I want
them cleaned out.”
So here he was. Pete Wilson, of
the International Detective Agency
of Washington, DC., confronted
with the task of cleaning out a
shady racket. He smiled grimly,
“I guess I'm in for some fun—or
something,” he added.
Pete left the hotel about eight
thirty that evening and walked
down into the section of the town
where the theatres were located.
Since it was rather early yet, he
decided to go in one of them.
His eyes fell on a pretty girl in
one of the boxes. Now Pete had
seen plenty of pretty girls in his
life. But never in all his twenty
seven years could he remember
having seen a girl like the one he
was gazing at now. “Phew!” he
exclaimed to himself, “what an
angel! I wonder if that’s her old
man with her?”
Turning to a youth beside him,
he asked. “Say, bud, do you know
that girl and man up there in the
first box?”
"Sure. Tlie girl is Sally Wright
and the man is Paul Carlson,” the
youth replied, turning his attention
«o 'lie girl on the seat beside him.
"Paul Carlson, eh?” Pete mused.
“So that’s the guy I’m supposed
to get interested in. Well, I don’t
believe I'm going to like Carlson
but Miss Wright and I should get
along fine.”
During the rest of the show Pete
sat gazing at the girl. He was try
ing hard to figure out some way
of meeting her. At the same time
he was telling himself that at last
he had found the real answer to
all his romantic dreams.
The show ended and he drifted
out with the crowd, hoping to
catch sight of her again in the
lobby.
Finally he saw her. She was
standing over in one corner as if
she were waiting for someone. Pete
began to shove through the crowd
in her direction praying fervently
“Well,” said Pete to himself, “you sure have gotten yourself into one hell of a fix.”
that she wouldn’t move away until
he got over to her.
The closer he got to her, the
prettier she seemed to get. She
had a complexion the hue of a
ripe peach. Her thick black hair
seemed to fall all sorts of ways be
hind her two ears. Then again :t
didn't look as though there was a
strand out of place. Her face look
ed like it might have been a crea
tion of some super portrait artist.
What a beauty!
Pete supposed she was waiting
for Carlson. He looked around at
the sea of black, brown and yellow
faces In the lobby, but Carlson was
nowhere in sight.
neacmng m nis pocket, ne pulled
out a small lacy handkerchief, si
lently blessing the female who had
put it there and forgotten it. He
stooped in front of the girl and
arose with the handkerchief in his
hand. She was looking straight at
him. Something in that look warn
ed Pete that she knew just what
he was up to.
He looked at her for a second
and then grinned shamefacedly.
“You win,” he said, putting the
lace handkerchief back in his
pocket.
She still looked at him, a half
amused expression in her eyes as
though she were watching a bashful
boy.
S “It was a little crude," Pete went
on, ‘‘but you see I just wanted to
meet you.”
“Why?” she asked in a voide so
soft and sweet that Pete found
himself thinking it ought 1 to be
[chopped up and sold in a candy
shop.
“I'm not trying to be fresh or
anything like that,” Pete hastened
to assure her. “I’m a stranger here
or else I would have had some one
to introduce us properly. I’m Pete
Wilson.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, a smile
lightening her face, making her
fairly radiant. “You’re the detec
tive, aren't you?”
Pete nodded, too dumbfounded to
speak. How did this girl whom he
had never seen or heard of before
know that he was a detective?
“I'm Sally Wright.” The girl
went on. extending a small hand
which Pete hastily grabbed in boti*
of his.
bay, how did you know I was a
detective?”
“I saw your picture in the papers
when you were working on a case
in Pittsburgh last month,” she
answered, gently disengaging her
hand.
“You didn’t get a bad impression
of me, did you?” Pete asked hope
fully.
“Of course not. I thought you
were rather nice.”
Pete's heart almost skipped a few
beats when she said that. “I see
we're going to be swell friends.
Aren't we?”
“Well,” she smiled michievously,
“maybe.”
He pulled the lace handkerchief
out of his pocket again. “To our
friendship; may it never be blown
away. You take it, will you?"
“Uh-huh,” she smiled, putting'
the handkerchief in her bag.
“You know,” Pete went on, “I
have always dreamed of finding a
girl like you. Funny, ain’t it?”
She was saved from answering
this by the sudden appearance of
Carlson.
“Well, well, Mr. Wilson, what
brings you to our town?” Carlson
greeted him.
“You know me too, eh?”
“Sure,” Carlson replied, “who
hasn’t heard of the great Pete Wil
son, super sleuth? My name's
Carlson.”
They shook hands.
oiuce you two seemed to have
met before, let’s drop out to the
club for awhile," Carlson raid
heartily.
Pete wondered what Carlson’s
game was. Any way he decided to
go along. For there was Sally. “All
right by me,” he said aloud.
He followed Carlson and Sally
outside and got in a big luxurious
limousine that looked as though It
had all the conveniences of a mod
ern three-room apartment.
Carlson talked a lot as the car
rolled on its way. Pete, however,
only emitted an occasional “yes"
or “no.” He was busy trying to
hold Sally’s hand.
On the edge of the town, the car
turned up a gravel driveway that
led through a grove of trees. After
running back about five hundred
yards, it stopped before an old
Colonial house, whose veranda was
circled with soft lights from Japa
nese lanterns. Above the door was
a sign that read:
THE BLACK AND TAN CLUB
P. Carlson. Prop.
“Well, here we are,” Carlson!
said, getting out and helping Sally
out. “What do you think of this
location?”
“Ain’t bad,” Pete replied. !
They went inside.
An orchestra sat at one end of
the big room. Tables and booths
extended around the walls in a
horseshoe shape, leaving a fairly
darge dancing space in the center.
Soft colored lights hung from
brackets on the walls, giving the
room a pleasant blend of coloring.
Already there was a fairly large
crow din the room. Blacks, browns,
yellows and here and there a white
ccuple sat apparently enjoying
themselves as much as their darker
brethren and sisters.
Pete followed Sally and Carlson
to a booth and seated himself in a
chair. The Black and Tan Club,
irom what he could see, seemecf to
be a very popular place.
“Well, what’ll it be?” Carlson
asked, leaning back in his chair
and lighting a big black cigar.
“Ginger ale for me,” Sally said.
“Milk.” Pete said.
■wnatt" oarison exclaimed al
most falling backward in his chair.
The waitress too seemed to be
on the verge of a collapse.
Sally was looking wonderingly at
Pete, who seemingly unmindful of
it all, was gazing innocently at the
orchestra.
“What did you say?” Carlson ask
ed again, leaning forward so as to
catch every word.
Pete looked at him faintly sur
prised. “Milk,” he replied, “You
know, cow fruit.”
The waitress giggled.
Carlson pulled out a large silk
handkerchief and mopped his brow.
“Bring me plenty of rye,” he or
dered, “and this—see that he gets
his-er-milk.”
With their respective drinks be
fore them, they talked on different
things in general. But from the
way Carlson looked at him every
now and then, Pete knew there was
something else more important that
Carlson wanted to talk about.
Finally Pete asked Sa^ly to dance.
He forgot all about Carlson, when
he was dancing with her. “You
know," he said, “you don’t look as
though you are the kind of girl
that comes to a joint like this
often.”
“I don't come here often,” Sally
smiled. ....
“Good!" Pete said emphatically.
“And why do you say that?”
she asked looking up in his face.
“You're turning out to be exact
ly the kind of girl I’ve been
dreaming about.”
“You’re crazy,” Sally said laugh
ingly. But her laugh was a little
uncertain.
Back at their table, a big dark
heavy set man was sitting talking
to Carlson. He was introduced to
Pete as being Sam Jones.
Sally excused herself and went to
join some friends at another table.
Instantly Carlson's oily manner
disappeared. “All right, Wilson,
what's the game?” he asked sud
denly.
“What game?” Pete inquired in
nocently, sipping his milk.
“C'mon, bo,” Jones said, leaning
heavily on the table and looking
darkly at Pete. “We’re wise t’ ya.”
“Yeah,” Carlson added, “we
know you’re here to try to put
something on us. What's it alt
about?”
“Well,” Pete said suddenly, put
ting his empty glass on the table,
“Since you two are so very interest
