The Mystery Megapack

stunt on the road?” demanded the patrolman. “Who are you, anyhow?”
    McClung just gurgled. Petey, quicker with his wits, jerked a thumb backward. “A fellow kept followin’ us,” he complained. “Had no lights or nothin’. We thought he was a robber or somethin’.”
    “Yeh!” snapped the patrolman. “He’s halted right behind you. I suppose that’s why this feller took a shot at me. Hey?”
    Petey had nothing more to say. Neither had McClung. The other patrolman came up, and the lights of his machine played on two persons he had routed out of the second auto—a stylish youth in Norfolk clothes and checked cap, and a tall girl whose features were concealed by a big hat and a great coat.
    “I got these two out of the big machine behind.” reported the second patrolman to the first.
    “Never mind them!” snorted the latter. “Let’s get these two birds out of this machine while we look through it. There’s something fishy here. Hey, you fellers—climb out!”
    Petey and McClung obeyed sullenly while the patrolman pocketed the latter’s pistol and herded the suspects in front of the headlights. The other officer explored the tonneau of the car, his hands touching several suitcases. He brought one up to the forward light and opened it. The illumination glinted on diamonds, sapphires, rabies, brooches, watches, and rings heaped together in a glittering pile.
    “Wow!” exclaimed the patrolman, his eyes opening. “So that’s the game, hey? Where’d you birds get these?”
    Petey and McClung remained stubbornly silent. The patrolman gave them a grim nod. “I thought so!” he announced. “Robbery. We’ll find pretty soon where the stuff came from, all right. When the folks in that house find themselves robbed—wherever it is—they’ll let out a yell that will whoop through the bay cities. But why did you shoot at the other machine?”
    “I told you!” snarled Petey. “They kept follerin’ us all the time.”
    “You!” demanded the patrolman, pointing at the quivering young man. “What’s the idea of following these people? Where’s your lights? Don’t you know the law about headlights?”
    “Ye-es; certainly,” quavered the youngster. “Only, my lamps burned out, or something, coming up from San Jose, and I didn’t have any others.”
    “I get you,” nodded the experienced patrolman. “Elopers. Hey?”
    The young man, still nervous from being fired at, nodded sulkily.
    “All right—go on,” grinned the patrolman. “After this, don’t ever have bum lamps, on the road or anywhere else. Get me?”
    The youngster gulped and started to comfort the girl, who was beginning to cry. McClung, standing wobegone in front of the headlights, watched them for a long time, and then he gave voice, very slowly. Something was trickling into his brain. The utter futility of life in general, including automobiles, burglary, lights, elopements, and policemen, was striking McClung in a way to plant the seeds for a lifetime of chronic pessimism.
    “Was—was you only followin’ us because you couldn’t see the road?” he demanded of the young man in a strange voice.
    “Certainly. I had no lights, so I let you pace me. That’s all there was to it. Your lamps served for both machines.”
    “Damn!” sobbed McClung, as they led him away with Petey.

THUBWAY THAM’S INTHANE MOMENT, by Johnston McCulley
    Detective Craddock stepped nearer the front of the little cigar store on the corner and almost pressed his nose against the window as he glanced inside. There was an expression of bewilderment on the countenance of the detective. His eyes bulged and then narrowed to two tiny slits as if he was considering something highly unusual and wondering just what it might mean. His lower jaw drooped and then came up again with a snap, expressing determination. To “get the goat” of Detective Craddock, who was a terror to those of the underworld, it was necessary only to attempt to “put something over” on him.
    And Detective Craddock was not absolutely certain, of course, but he feared that a certain person was attempting to put something over on him now. And, to make matters worse, that certain person was no less a personage than Thubway Tham.
    Thubway Tham was a clever pickpocket, one of the cleverest in the business, and he worked only in the subway during rush hours. He long ago had earned the name in the underworld of Subway Sam. And because, lisping, he called himself “Thubway