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in the center of a block of so-called railroad apartment houses. That is, buildings made up of narrow flats which had their three to four rooms lined up in a straight row from the front of the building to the alley, much as railroad cars. A yellow and finger-marked tenant list in the smelly hall gave the information that the Carlsons lived on the third floor. I tramped all the way up only to find no one home.
    When I got down to the street again, I contemplated waiting in my car for a time on the chance that someone in the Carlson family would turn up before long. Then I had a better idea.
    Slowly I cruised the neighborhood until I spotted a couple of youngsters wearing purple jackets and snap-brim hats with dark purple bands. They were leaning against the brick side of a tavern doing nothing, their hands in their pockets and cigarettes drooping from their mouths.
    Parking the car, I walked over to them and said, “Wonder if you boys could help me? I’m looking for Stub Carlson.”
    Both boys were about sixteen, thin, underfed youngsters with arrogant expressions on their faces. One was only about five feet six and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds. The other was perhaps two inches taller and possibly fifteen pounds heavier.
    They both examined me coolly. Then the taller boy turned to his companion.
    “Ever hear of Stub Carlson?” he asked.
    The other merely shook his head.
    “I’ve got a message for him from Joe Brighton,” I said.
    The taller boy looked at me sharply. “You a cop?” he asked with contempt.
    I said patiently, “I’m a friend of Joe’s.”
    “Yeah? Let’s see the message.”
    “It’s for Stub Carlson,” I said. “Nobody else.”
    The youngster blew smoke from his nose and deliberately looked past my shoulder, ignoring me. The studied insolence in response to my own polite tone began to get under my skin. I reached out and gathered a handful of purple jacket in each hand.
    “I don’t pick on kids ordinarily,” I growled. “But if you don’t tell me where to find Stub Carlson in exactly three seconds, I’ll bend both of you over my knee and blister your bottoms!”
    The eyes of the smaller lad widened, but those of the taller boy grew strangely narrower. His right hand began to slide from his pocket.
    “Pull that switch knife and I’ll make you eat it,” I informed him.
    His hand froze and his expression became less arrogant and more uncertain. After a moment he asked, “How do I know you’re a friend of Joe’s?”
    “You take it on faith. And take it fast. In about one more tick you go over my knee.”
    I think the threat upset the kid more than if I had offered him more violent damage. To his own mind he was an adult, and the prospect of being spanked like a baby seemed to appall him. He licked his lips.
    “I guess just steering you to Stub wouldn’t hurt anything. Even if you’re a cop. I guess you’d find him eventually if you really wanted to.”
    “Don’t strain my patience too much,” I said.
    “We’ll bring him to you,” he decided. “I know where he is. It’ll only take five minutes.”
    “Fine,” I agreed, releasing his jacket but retaining my grip on the smaller boy. “Only you go after him alone. I’ll keep your pal as a hostage in case you forget what you went after.”
    He shrugged, smoothed the wrinkles from the front of his jacket, straightened his hat and resumed his arrogant expression. Without hurry he strolled to the corner, rounded the front of the tavern and disappeared.
    “You going to hold me like this till they get back?” the other kid asked. “I won’t run away.”
    I considered him. He was six inches shorter than I was and I probably outweighed him by seventy pounds. I felt a little silly standing there holding him.
    “I’ll try you,” I said. “Just keep leaning against the wall though.”
    Cautiously I released my grip. He smiled slightly, his thin body relaxed against the wall, his hands still in his