| in the wholesale district and that every man

Phone PA cific 4850 | that could be spared was either on a beat

or in a prowler car in that section. But

HOTEL STRATFORD | Brogan? No, he had to stay on his regular
Silaheson, Manager | beat. No opportunities for Brogan. Too

| old. Interrupting his reverie, Brogan saw

LICENSED PREMISES | the flash of the green light on the patrol
Peigers Ave. & Keefer Sreet box in the next block. “What would they

be wanting me for?” thought Brogan, as
he unlocked the box and called “Brogan
e talking.” The operator said, “Brogan, hold
on a minute, the desk sergeant wants to
talk to you,” and then connected him with
the desk. “Brogan,” said the desk sergeant,
“the patrol inspector says that there is no
Moderate Rates First-class Service one on beat number three. McDonald, who
is the regular beat man, just took sick, and
he wants you to go there right away.” “All
right, 'm on my way,” replied Brogan. At
last, a chance. Beat number three was in

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Spilshury & Hepburn the heart of the wholesale district. Was
Lid. this it?

: ee’ Brogan reported from the call box at

Radio Communications the east end of Beat Number Three. “Better

Technicians keep on your toes, Tom,” the operator

: answered. “There have been no warehouse

Radiophones and Domestic crackings for four days, so maybe tonight’s

Radios the night.” No longer was Brogan striding

along with heavy measured tread. Alert,
and stepping with a light footfall, he
570 Cardero St. covered all the lanes in his area. He’d show
them, if only the chance came.

Box 285 - A ring of metal against stone cut through
VANCOUVER B.C. | the crisp night air. The sound came from
the lane across the street. Brogan hurried
over, and in crossing the street came under
the full glare of a street light, and then he
saw two figures, indistinct in the heavy
gloom, beside the warehouse. As he app-
roached, both figures started to run towards
the opposite end of the lane. Brogan
shouted, “Stop or I fire.” One figure
stopped, seemed to merge with the shadows
of the wall, then two flashes of light in
rapid succession, and Brogan felt a stabbing
blow in the left shoulder, then a numbness
to his fingertips. Raising his service revolv-
er the officer fired twice in the direction
of the flashes. As the two shots rang out,
there was another shot from the alley, then
silence. Brogan crept up covered by the
deep shadows by the wall towards the place
where he had seen the first two streaks of
lurid flame. Half way down the lane, he

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Vancouver, B. 6.

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stumbled against a soft object crumpled
against a doorway of one of the warehouses.
He flashed his light on for a moment,
enough to see that it was the prone figure
of a man. Then darkness again as he awaited
the crash of the partner’s gun. Seconds
went by. Silence. Only a soft rustle up the
lane came to his ears, but this was perhaps
a stray eddy of wind in the loose packing
paper with which the lane abounded. The
stamp of running feet, and Patrolman Brad-
ley came towards him from the other end
of the lane. “What happened?” the latter
called, as he pounded down the lane in
answer to Brogan’s hail. “I caught two of
the warehouse gang here, and I think I
must have hit one of them. Did you see
where the other one went?” Bradley replied
breathlessly: “No one left my end of the
lane, but maybe he sneaked out before I
crossed the street.” Both officers then bent
over the figure on the ground. “Well, he
won't have to face trial anyway,” the prac-
tical Bradley remarked. “Funny,” he went
on, “your slug must have hit him as he was
turning to run. See, it struck him on the
right side, right in line with his heart. He
must have had his arm raised, or the slug
would have gone through it first.”

At that moment a prowler car, attracted
by the shots, came down the lane, its bright
lights bathing the scene with the brilliance
of day. A sergeant stepped out and soon
took in all the facts. “Good work, Brogan,”
he said. “This yegg here has given us plenty
of trouble. We got him twice before with
stolen goods in his possession, but each time
he told the court a plausible story and was
given the benefit of the doubt. This time
he won't have to bother with any story.”
A large iron grating over one of the ware-
house windows had been pried off, and
was lying in the lane. This had been the
noise Brogan heard. “Too bad the other
one got away, but we'll get him some other
time. These mugs never know when to
quit,” went on the sergeant. Brogan’s feel-
ings were mixed. A sense of elation at
having reached the possibility of promotion
was tempered with a sharp twinge from
his conscience. He had never killed a man
before. Well, it was kill or be killed, yet—
Brogan was disturbed. As the Coroner
arrived and all the formalities were being

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FAirmont 0080

Page One Hundred and Twenty-nine